Project Libitina: Bloody Vengeance Cut
by SHD294
Summary: Based on works by /u/TwixsterTheTrickster on reddit, the Bloody Vengeance Cut follows MC through the entire Project Libitina story as he helps the Dokis fight back against the evil cult that haunts them. The chapters are super long (10k words or more), so just be aware of what you're getting into.
1. Beginnings

_This little part before the chapters is where I'll explain the changes from what Twixter, amazing writer they are, has put down. The biggest is that MC is 27 years old, and a Green Beret. THERE ARE REASONS. THERE ARE GOOD REASONS._

 _First, the explosions during the rescue point to someone with a basic working knowledge of demolitions work being part of the rescue team, meaning MC or Monika. While it could have been Monika, I can't see her being considered for any job involving explosives, given all of her mental problems. That means it's MC who made the bombs. However, MC has to get the explosives, and the cultists having them seems very overkill. They're religious fanatics into human experimentation, not doomsday preppers waiting for the apocalypse. Also, that might draw some attention, bring some ATF investigators poking around, which the cult would not want. Not even a little._

 _So MC has to get the explosive on his own. Stealing it from the military is out–they tend to be good about that sort of stuff–and I doubt that MC would know illegal arms dealers stateside, in both Twixter's headcanon and mine. So getting it from a friend who happens to be working for some PMC or something that can be a little loose with explosives works, but it's not like the friend would just give it to MC if MC didn't have a background a guy like that could trust. Plus, that guy would need to be fairly senior._

 _And since PMCs try to recruit ex-military, and really love special operators, it's not inconceivable for our explosives supplier to be a former special operator now in a senior position. The question then becomes "Who do special operators trust?" And that's people they've fought with, meaning other special operators. Also, the Dokis need to learn the art of war, and two 22-year olds probably wouldn't be able to teach them much other than point and pull trigger. So MC became a Green Beret, since a big part of their job is training up local allies, such as the Afghan National and Local Police, Syrian rebel groups, and even South Vietnamese troops back in the '60s and '70s. Then, someone needed to patch the Dokis up, so he became a medic. And he also became a sniper, because there's some long-range (500m+) shooting in a later chapter that's skin-and-bones right now._

 _And if you're not sold on the whole Special Forces thing, this is the version called the Bloody Vengeance Cut, where the cultists find out exactly how the Dokis feel, and I couldn't think of MC to realistically be that good at brutally killing people without a military background. So, yeah._

 _Other changes are Natsuki's height and weight, to bring them up from where the reports have them. Natsuki's height is listed as 42–I'm assuming that's inches, meaning she's 3'6". That's absurdly small. In North Korea, where everyone's starving, the average adult woman is 5'2". Canonically (DDLC, not PL), Natsuki is 4'9". I knocked off two inches due to her not being able to bake while having to deal with the cult. 55 instead of 42. A foot and change taller._

 _Quick disclaimer: This chapter is the chapter that leads you into the revenge. Like how in John Wick, you got 20-30 minutes before Keanu starts dropping bodies. Except way longer._

 _Quick glossary: Omega teams are groups of special operators detailed to the CIA. This happens so that the military can operate in areas that would otherwise be restricted. It's legal because it falls under the CIA's mandate of global intelligence gathering and occasional paramilitary intervention. While not conducted by an Omega team, the mission to kill Bin Laden was launched under CIA authority, to allow a strike into Pakistan. The process is known as "sheep-dipping". Miramshah is a major town in the tribal areas of Pakistan, which are a hotbed for terrorism._

 _This whole thing has been about a week in the making, so I've been editing as new content gets posted. As such, there might be some discrepancies I missed. Please point them out. Any feedback or questions would also be welcome._

 _Enjoy the show._

* * *

23 Jan 2018

Well, this is my last journal entry for a while. Maybe forever. Might as well recap everything in one nice long entry. Though, you, dear reader, might not like me very much. Nor agree with what I'm about to do. Well, done. Talking about future events is weird.

So I would like to start by saying they all deserved it. All of them. No exceptions.

Not that I think you disagree, if you know what the cult is. Be hard to think that every death I'm about to cause is unmerited, in light of what they are. Unless you're one of them, in which case go fuck yourself with a blowtorch.

Christ, where to begin. There's the first time I met Monika, the time I heard about why she was the way she was, the first time I laid eyes on one of the girls. The plan to get them out, preparing, gathering information, tools, and anything we might need. Can't talk about the execution of that plan. Not yet. That won't happen for another half-hour.

The second one. Let's do that one.

At this point, I should introduce myself, in case you don't already know who I am. I'm MC, 27 years old, born and raised in Brooklyn, and a retired Special Forces Medical Sergeant. I was born in 1990 and was eleven when I watched two planes crash into the North and South towers. About a month later, I watched grainy night-vision footage of Rangers jumping on Objective Rhino during the invasion of Afghanistan in 2001. I wanted to be one of them, and set about achieving my goal. My parents, naturally, though that joining the Army was a perfect way to die stupidly, and wanted me to become a doctor. I, however, made a quite reasonable compromise, and became a combat medic.

After eight years and four deployments, one with the 82nd Airborne, two with the 75th Ranger Regiment, and one with the 5th Special Forces Group, I retired. Figured I'd use my GI bill money to go to a community college, maybe try to go to med school and be an actual doctor.

That was the plan, anyway.

I was living with my parents until I got a reply back from the schools I'd applied to, and not four days after I was back home there was a high school reunion. I decided to show up, see who came. And, well, Monika did. Monika had shown up halfway through freshman year and hadn't made many friends, other than me and a relentlessly cheerful girl who drove me insane. We'd become pretty close, but never dated, since we had more of a brother-sister relationship. Also, she had issues. Panic attacks, depression, suicidal thoughts. I didn't feel the need to add stress to that. After I left to join up and she went to college, we'd stayed in touch, though not that closely.

Anyway, I showed up, found Monika, and we talked. We made plans to get lunch at her place Saturday, and that was when I found out why she had the mental issues she did.

I came up, and she'd made soup. It was just chili from a grocery store, but it tasted like the best damn chili ever. Period. Monika can cook. We got to talking about our lives, some projects she was working on, how I was doing, that stuff.

After about an hour, she had a panic attack and just curled up right into a ball. It was a bad one. Tears, whimpering, chills, sense of impending death, feeling like she'd lost control. Bad. Very bad. I tried to reassure her, calm her down, but nothing worked. After thirty minutes and change, it ended.

"You okay?" I asked. "Do you need me to get you anything?"

"No," she said, wiping away tears. "You know, I haven't told you why I'm like this."

"Do you want to tell me?" I asked. "If you don't, that's fine. It doesn't matter."

"I don't know. Maybe. It's pretty fucked up." She sniffled.

"Hey, we've been friends for, what, eleven or twelve years now? Whatever it is, I'm pretty sure I can handle it." I was sure. I figured that if you've seen someone's head just kinda explode, you can handle anything.

That's not exactly true.

"Are you absolutely sure?" Monika looked anxious.

"Entirely. I don't think there's a single thing you could do to make us not be friends."

She looked at the ground. "That's not true."

"Yes, it is," I said. "Monika, whatever bad experience you went through, it's in no way your fault. You don't deserve any blame for it."

She opened her mouth as though to say something, then shut it. She sighed. "Are you sure? It's–it's not good."

"I'm sure," I said. "Look, you and me both know that talking to someone about your problems helps take the weight off your shoulders. You don't want to talk to a therapist, fine. Talk to me. Worst-case, nothing changes."

"Okay. I guess," she said.

"Start at the beginning. Go from there. Just let it flow," I said.

"Well, there was a cult."

I'm not going to go into details. They're not mine to share. But the basics were enough to make my blood boil over. Monika's family used to be part of a cult that was all about the idea of a "third eye". Basically, people who could open their third eye could suppress pain and hunger, and simply hurt people. The cult called it "transcending worldly concerns". The thing was, there had to be trials. Pain and suffering had to be overcome. Resisted. Channeled into raw aggression. But you couldn't do that with adults. The responses were too ingrained. Adults were just too used to reacting in certain ways that just wouldn't cut it. Like, say, trying to just make it stop. So the testing had to start early.

With children, usually three years old. Four, sometimes. All girls, since apparently boys couldn't make it work. I didn't really know why. Some religious thing, according to Monika. Which, yeah, is pretty much what I've been told by the cult.

Monika had seen what happened when one of them managed to run. The guards had cornered her. She could see cuts and bruises all over that girl's body. She could hear the girl's screams, pleading for it to stop. She saw the girl snap, go completely insane, and kill sixteen people with nothing but her hands. She saw the girl pull the intestines from a cultist's body. Saw the girl gouge another's eyes out and rip out his throat with her teeth.

Monika and the girl were both twelve years old.

Her mother plotted their escape for a year and then did it. Got a dead-of-night divorce and got right the hell out. They went from West Virginia to Albany, hitching rides the whole way. Monika went to a foster family, who informed the FBI, who were stonewalled completely and left with a dead investigation. Everything after that, well, you know that.

"Do you think saving some of the others would help?"

"H-huh?" Monika looked at me. "What do-what are you saying?"

"I mean," I said, "We rescue some of the other subjects. Get them right the hell out of there."

"I-I couldn't do it. I mean, um, well, look at me. I'm pathetic." She looked at the ground.

"Wh-no, you're not," I said. "Pathetic is old people rapping. Y-you, however, are somehow not, like, completely catatonic after what you went through. That in and of itself makes you much stronger than lots of people I've known. Seriously, out of a like thousand people, maybe, um, one could deal with what you went through. And besides, they'd be pretty screwed up, y'know. Look, if you don't want to go back, I get it. Really, I understand. Not a lot of people can go back and face their fears. I don't think I could. But someone has to help those girls, and it might as well be us."

She looked at me. "You mean it?"

I smiled. "Fuck yeah. You're stronger than you think you are, Monnie. Superman's got nothing on you."

She frowned. "No, about helping them. Are you sure you'll do it?"

I'm not a big believer in vigilante justice. I think it causes more problems than it solves, most of the time. But this was an exception. The FBI couldn't do anything. The girls were stuck. Hurt every day. Nobody coming to save them. Probably lost all hope, ready to just give up the ghost and die. And given what I'd heard, that might be preferable. Well, okay. This was a worthy cause.

I nodded. "Okay. We'll do it, I promise."

She smiled, a little shakily. "Okay. We'll do it. We'll go save them."

So, yeah. That's how the ball started rolling on this. A Green Beret, a cult survivor, and a hell of a motive. But how did we even get to the point of blowing shit up?

Well, that's complicated.

* * *

I told my parents I'd found a college down in West Virginia, where the cult was, that looked like a good place to attend. I moved there with Monika in late January. She got a job doing set design for a theatrical company while I got a job as an EMT. On the cult's website, I looked for ways to join directly and help with the experiments. The plan was simple: try and sneak one of them out, to have some proof to show the FBI. No ordinary members could go in the experiment buildings, so I had to be security or a doctor. Doctor it was, since I figured it would give me the extra freedom to poke around.

Two months after moving, an opening appeared, and I took it. I'd showed interest on the website's discussion boards, and shared the fact that I was an EMT. They gave me the job, and I took it. I got the location, and was driven there for a job interview.

My interviewer's name was Doctor Libitina. All I was told was Doctor L, but his full name was in the medical reports I saw later. He said his name was unpronounceable. He was so full of shit. Anyway, the interview went like this:

"Do you care about the third eye?"

"Yes."

"But do you care?"

"Totally."

"And you'd do anything to help us develop carriers?"

"Yep."

"You're hired."

I still have no fucking clue how I got that job. No, really. An EMT is now a qualified doctor? I didn't mention my military background. I just said I had a philosophy degree. They took that as an answer for eight missing years on my resume. Even still, I don't know what the hell prompted them to hire me.

My first day working, they eased me in. They gave me an office and a computer. No Wi-Fi. I got access to the complete medical records of all the subjects. I started reading.

It was bad.

It was very bad.

There were only three left alive–Sayori, Natsuki, and Yuri. No, I don't know their last names. They were left out of the reports. Yuri had been initiated into the project when she was three. Sayori, age six. Natsuki had been there since she was two. They called them "carriers". Like they had a fucking disease. It was used as the word for what they were everywhere, even in the research notes.

The notes. Fuck me, the notes. Things like "The following occasional behaviors have been noted and should be ignored in future examinations: Abnormal loss of weight;" and on, and on, and on. The injury histories weren't much better. They'd started detailed ("3 Feb 05: Slash, 5mm deep, lower chest. 3 Feb 05: Cracked rib (3). 3 Feb 05: Broken nose) and ended as just a simple list ("9 Oct 16: 27 knife slashes in various locations, 6 closed-fist strikes to the face, 2 4.5 milliamp electric shocks").

There were pictures. I looked. I wish I didn't. You'll find them on the computers. Don't look. You'll wish you didn't.

What really made it worse was that it wasn't just physical violence, though. No, see, that would be too fucking nice, right? Because, hey, we're already kinda like a concentration camp, so why not go all the fucking way?

Natsuki was on motherfucking starvation rations. She was 55 inches tall and weighed in at 87 pounds. For reference, the average American girl is 10 years old at that height. At 16, they're 64 inches tall and weigh 120 pounds–ten inches taller and 30 pounds heavier. Yuri wasn't even allowed to move one goddamn inch, or the guards on her cell would storm in and chain her up and make sure she couldn't. And Sayori was isolated for fucking days on end, which might explain her attachment to her cow plush and music box–people need companionship, and if it's not other people, you get Tom Hanks and Wilson.

I should have just done–Well, what I'm about to do–as soon as I could have. The planning for what you're looking into only took a few days.

My schedule was simple: I could live outside the complex, and showed up Monday through Wednesday, plus Fridays and occasional weekend call-ins, from eight in the morning to midnight. Later, if I had to patch one of the girls up. As far as staff, there were a whole bunch of other doctors–ten or fifteen, plus maybe fifty nurses, but Dr. Libitina was in charge. He dreamt up all sorts of new ways to torture the girls, sadistic motherfucker that he was. The head of the guards was Mike Davis, who basically knew enough to schedule regular patrols, keep his guys disciplined, and not completely fuck up. There were maybe another sixty guards. There was also a helicopter on-site, an AgustaWestland AW139, piloted by some random guys who apparently were retired Coasties. The whole cult came under the leadership of a Mr. Scott Harriet, a "religious visionary" who intended to spread "enlightenment".

As far as testing, I did my best to never have to hurt the girls. Ever. If I could, I found some forms that needed to be filled out. Or a new piece of medical equipment that the facility might need, worth checking out, and it had to be in person. Or I'd be wandering around, noting something down in a notebook, looking busy. Couldn't avoid it forever, though. It was starting to get suspicious.

* * *

About three months in, one of the doctors–Doug Jones, a small, skinny guy from LA, a real sadist, guy actually enjoyed the experiments–had me come with him, right at the end of my shift. "Routine experiment," he said. He wasn't lying. That's what made me nervous. "Routine experiment" meant "Horrifying torture even the motherfucking SS would balk at". "Routine experiment" was code for "We're going to beat a teenager who has no idea what life without beatings is until they die or become completely insane." And if I was going with Doug, I was taking part. I did not want to take part.

Room 110, Wing A. Sayori's. She'd been isolated for a week this time. Two security guards filed in beside us. I noted mentally their gear–batons and a sidearm with two spare magazines, no body armor–as well as the number of guards on the way here, their positions, the doors, anything that might be useful for a rescue. Doug handed me a knife. "Cut her," he said. "Do it."

I would like to make it very clear before I continue that my options were clearly hurt her or die. At the very least, I'd be kicked out, with no way of helping. One man storming the castle works for Hollywood, but not real life. And the planning for a rescue attempt was still in its infancy, anyway.

I raised the knife and stalked closer to Sayori. She trembled in fear, knowing what was about to happen. Tears pricked my eyes, and I blinked them back. Do it. Do it now, I thought. Before they step in and do something worse. I mouthed I'm sorry. Then I slashed at her.

I don't think that I'll ever be able to forget the screams.

I don't think that I'll be able to forgive myself for causing them.

I handed the bloody knife to Doug, forced a smile on to my face, and stormed out to go home. Monika had texted me. She'd be working late. Okay. Good. Good. I had time. I walked to the motor pool, said goodnight to the guard, slipped into the car, and sobbed for a while.

* * *

I drove home to the old abandoned warehouse we called home. Well, it wasn't that old, the roof didn't leak, and it was in overall great shape, except nobody knew who owned it, so it was assumed by everyone who came across it that nobody did. We'd gotten locks to keep the drifters out, and that had been that. The place still had water and electricity, so that was nice. Air mattresses, pillows, sleeping bags. A table and two chairs. A broken-up old couch. A washing machine. A few space heaters for winter. An old TV from the turn of the century. A few books. A camp stove with propane. Cutting boards and knives, laid out on a longish table. The place still had electricity and running water, so we had a microwave and a fridge, and a sink and a bathroom. No shower, but we had a tub of sorts. Some extra plywood, nails, and tarps. A dresser we used for plates and silverware. My Xbox and some games.

Wasn't much, but it was a place to plan. And it was an hour's drive from the compound.

We had a corkboard, with pictures, names, dates, and faces all connected by various colors of string, each meaning something different. There were notebooks, filled with information on guard patrols, the construction of the place, what the guards carried, locations of various places of interest–Wing A, the offices, helipad, armory, fuel tanks for the buildings, guard towers, and the parking lot–and notes on the girls, what they would need, medically speaking, to help them recover.

I opened the door. Monika wasn't home yet. Wouldn't be for another hour. I collapsed onto the couch, took out my phone. We were ass-deep in the sticks, but I had service. My parents had texted, asking if there was anything they could do to help me get into the college, since they weren't interested in taking me on halfway through the year. I texted them back, telling them I appreciated the offer. A couple of guys I knew from my old Ranger platoon and A-Team had called, asking how I was doing. I left messages saying I was doing just fine, not to worry about me. I had a text from a SEAL buddy of mine, a guy I'd worked with in my Ranger days who had co-founded a PMC, offering me a job. I texted him back that I wasn't interested right now, but maybe later, and did he want to grab a beer sometime? I got a reply back in about a minute, saying sure, any time you're down. I said I'd try to find some time, and turned my phone off, alone with my thoughts.

I must have sat there for an hour. Thinking about the knife. The blood spatters on my jacket, currently in the wash. What Monika would say when she found out. How badly it would hurt her, regardless of the circumstances. About how I'd promised to help end the suffering, and just ended perpetuating it.

The door opened, and Monika stepped through, paint on her hands. "Hey, MC. Long d–MC?" I turned and looked at her. "What's wrong?"

I sighed, shook my head, and smiled, though I didn't feel like smiling. I felt like taking Doug and stabbing him in the face with the kitchen knife resting on the table. I felt like burning the whole place down, Dr. Libitina and all the guards with it. I felt like telling Monika, Oh, nothing, I'm fine, it's just that I did the exact opposite of what we're here to do today. But I didn't.

Instead, I asked a question. "Am I cooking tonight?" She shook her head. "Okay. I'll set the table." _Yep. the table. Focus on the table. Hard, thickish wood, doesn't bend, doesn't break easily. Focus in on that. Just do what you need to do. Just walk to the dresser. Go get the forks, knives_ –"Do we need spoons?"– _nope, she's shaking her head. Just get two plates, two cups. Now fill them up with the bottled water from the fridge–you know it's safe, there's no lead. Just ask Monika if she needs help–"Nope, I got it." Get the napkins you forgot. Try to think about something, anything than what you did._

"MC?" Monika said, a question in her voice.

"Yeah?" I replied, a little nervous.

"You didn't answer my question."

I stayed absolutely quiet for a few seconds. "We're going to rescue them, right?" I asked. "Tell me all this isn't for nothing."

"MC?"

"Just–just promise me I'm not doing this for nothing, o-okay?"

Monika didn't say a word. Then: "We will rescue them. I promise." Silence hung in the air.

Then I smelled smoke. "Christ, the bacon!" I yelled, then hopped up and ran for the stove.

* * *

Dinner was uneventful. We ate in silence, occasionally broken by me talking about how good the food was and asking about a project Monika was working on. We went to sleep, then woke up when we needed to, headed to work when we had to. I only had to show up Monday through Wednesday, plus Fridays, and the occasional weekend call-in. Today was Thursday. I had the day off.

I didn't really know what to do. So I decided to shoot some targets, clear my head. That usually worked. I'd bought a gun, a Glock 19, for self-defense, in case the cult got a little suspicious and tried to close a loose end. I had bought a box of 100 rounds not long ago, so I opened it and loaded three magazines. Smacked one into the gun, chambered a round. I put the other two in one pocket, the Glock in my waistband, stuffed earplugs in my ears, and walked outside, grabbing a few empty cans on the way. I like to shoot, mostly because I'm really good at it. Running, swimming, general fitness, I wasn't much above the unit average when I was with the Rangers, and that didn't change with the Green Berets. I was good at being quiet and camouflaging myself, side effects of being a sniper, but shooting is where I really excelled. I can pick my teeth with an M16 and iron sights at a thousand yards. Not really sure why. Talent and lots of practice.

I stood one can on a stump, counted out ten one-yard paces, then turned and drew, firing twice, a clean, efficient double-tap. Bang-bang. A second and a half to turn and draw, another half to shoot. Just like that. Still got it. I walked over, picked the can back up, stood it on the stump again. I repeated the process. Bang-bang. The can flew, two holes, one right above the other, exactly where the brain stem would have been. I set up two of the cans this time. Bang-bang, bang-bang. An extra second that time, eaten by the traverse and second double. I set the cans back up. Bang-bang. Doug's head exploded. Bang-bang. Dr. Libitina's face caved in. I emptied the rest of the magazine into both cans, Bang bang bang bang, then switched the empty for a fresh 15-rounder and hit the slide release.

I noticed I was breathing hard. Jesus, I thought, what the hell? I needed to cool down. I took the earplugs out of my ears. Walked back inside and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. Sat on the couch, opened it, and drank. I finished it, then I pulled out my phone. My SEAL friend from before was in town. Did I want to get a beer with him?

Well, it beat drinking alone.

* * *

Joe Savone and I had met in 2013, when I was still a Ranger. He'd joined up because of the stories he'd read about Vietnam, strikes deep inside Laos and Cambodia and the North. We'd worked as part of a CIA-run Omega team doing operations in the tribal areas of Pakistan. A few raids, some recon, the occasional battle-damage assessment for drone strikes. An assassination, once. They'd taken two six-man teams of SEALs from SEAL Team Six and thrown them together with a Ranger platoon. It worked great, and we'd become pretty close. He was a little older, had served for a little longer, but we were still close.

"Hey, brother!" Joe's not a big guy. The opposite, actually. I'm a biggish guy–5'11 and 195. Joey is pint-sized, 5'7" and 160 pounds. He was–is–one of the toughest people I know.

"Hey, man. How've you been?" I asked, sitting down at the table with him. He smiled.

"Doin' fine. Just got promoted." He sounded happy.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. You're looking at the new Operations Director for Crimson Hawk Tactical Solutions!"

"Ah, really? That's great!" I say. Crimson Hawk was–is–pretty much the new Blackwater, just without the major scandals. Maybe they'll actually go a while without one of those. Most of what they do is training up locals. Joe had gotten out two years before me, and signed on with Crimson Hawk before they really took off, so he got a relatively senior position, but not that high. It sounded like he'd been doing great there, really thriving.

"Eh, I gotta wear a suit and tie more, deal with more red tape and gold braid, but it's more cash, so I can't complain too much," he said. "I'm still doing good work, and while it's not exactly the door-kicking I'm used to, it's pretty important. I'm actually down here to see about opening a training facility, talk to the FBI about a contract to train their local SWAT guys." He sounded really excited.

"Sounds like things have been going well for ya," I said. A waiter came over, and we ordered drinks–Jack and Coke for me, a whiskey cocktail for Joe.

He smiled. "They have." Then he got serious. "Look, if you ever need a job, I'm right here, okay? I still owe you for Miramshah." I started to protest, but Joe kept on going. "Yes, I do, okay? And even if you don't want to go into the field, you can always test out some new toys. Work in procurement. Right? Just something to get you on your feet."

The drinks came, and I took a sip while I stared at him. "Joe, I have a job."

He looked surprised. "Oh?"

I chuckled. "Yeah. I'm doing some medical research." My face must have darkened, because he gave me a look that said what even is your job, really? Why is it giving you that look? "It's for a cancer drug," I said. "They need nurses for IVs, stuff like that. Not real happy work, not all that complex, but the checks cash."

Joe scoffed. "Really? MC, that's a waste of talent. You were Special Forces, a Ranger, a damn good combat medic. And you're doing–what? Glorified palliative care? Come on. Don't you wish you could do something actually worth your time? You were one of the elite, and you're wasting your time on that?"

"Hey, it pays well," I said, defensively. It did. The cult had serious cash. Enough to buy a $12 million chopper, and construct a multi-million-dollar medical facility, and enough to pay me five grand a month for–well, not much. But enough.

"I'm sure it does," he said. "But let's be fair: are you really using everything you've learned? Are you wrapping head wounds and doing blood transfusions? Doing long sniper stalks in the bush, you and a rifle for hours, then the shot, when it comes? Nice quick hard-and-fast raids? All the stuff you could be doing? Don't tell me you don't miss it." I stayed silent. Joe checked his watch. "Look, if you ever get tired of nursing, give me a call, okay? You have my number. I gotta go talk to the FBI." He called the waiter over and paid for both drinks, downed his in one big gulp. "See ya 'round, MC."

"See ya 'round, Joe," I said, smiling and waving. I felt somewhat exploited, coming in to have drinks with a friend and then getting the recruiting pitch. Well, Joe was a suit now. It was to be expected. I finished my drink and left a decent tip for the waiter, then walked out to my car and drove back home.

 _God, why did he have to bring up Miramshah? It was years ago. He doesn't owe me anything_ , I thought. _Probably part of his play. Make it out like he's being charitable, make me feel like I'm lucky to get that deal. Unless he's serious, in which case he's an idiot. And all that shit about "What I could be doing". Doesn't he get that I got out for a reason?_

Whatever. I drove home and slept until six, when Monika got home and it was my turn to cook.

* * *

Not much changed after I had those drinks with Joe, except now I had to carry out the routine checkups. You know, reflexes, weight, vision, pain tolerance. Usual tests for a 16-year old. I also had to record the results of Dr. Libitina's twisted experiments. After eight more months, I thought I had enough information to start planning the escape.

It was a simple plan: Monika would pretend to be one of the nurses, and get one of the girls to my office. From there, we'd give her a new set of clothes–not much, but enough to keep the guards from recognizing her long enough for us to get to the parking lot. Then we'd get the hell out.

As I drove up the road, Monika in the passenger seat, I thought about how it finally felt like everything was coming together. We'd finally get to rescue one of them. Everything I'd done finally had a point. I drove up the road, nodded to the guard, and drove on through to the parking lot. Monika kept her face covered up with a scarf, to make sure nobody recognized her. I thought that since it'd been almost fifteen years since she was last there, she wouldn't be recognized, but she wasn't taking any chances. I didn't blame her. Given how terrified of the place she seemed, I thought she was brave enough just going inside. Pine trees passed us by as I drove into my parking space and locked up the car.

We walked inside, and I saw her look a little panicky. We got to my office without incident, though, and as I locked the door behind us, I heard her say, "So you just accept this?"

I turned and looked at her. She pressed on. "The fact that people are suffering? I would have left already."

"Well," I said, "Everything we've worked up to finally starts here. You remember exactly where her room is, right?" I'd decided to get Sayori out. She was in Room 110, Wing A. All the other rooms on the first floor were empty. All the test subjects in them had died a long time ago, well before me and Monika got here. I saw Monika give a slight nod. "Good," I told her. "I'll be waiting. You know what we're doing, right?"

"Y-yeah," she stuttered. "Bring her here, sneak her out. Got it." She looked terrified. I grabbed her shoulders and leaned in, staring into her eyes.

"Just breathe, Monika," I said. "I believe in you. Go save 'em. It's time to be a hero. Both of us." I hugged her. "You can do it," I told her.

She gave me a confident smile and strolled out of the room. As soon as she was gone, I press-checked my Glock, made sure I had a round chambered. Because while I didn't expect to get into a shootout, it's always good to be prepared. I stuck it back in the holster attached to my belt, by my back, and waited.

I heard two knocks, and saw Monika, looking very panicked, with Sayori and a security guard. Shit. Shit. "Oh! Hello, Steve. Good to see ya," I said in my doctor voice, trying to get rid of him. "I got what I need, you can go now." No such luck. Steve shook his head.

"It's protocol for security to be with the carriers at all times," he said, a chiding tone in his voice. Like I should have known. I should have. Shit. That fucked everything up. "I cannot leave her side no matter what you tell me, doctor," he said, sounding almost apologetic. I sighed, like I was annoyed, and proceeded with the check-up, like it was a normal day. Simple tests. Eyesight, height, weight, reflexes. I could feel Monika reading the checklist over my shoulder. I finished all the tests, and came to the last one.

Pain tolerance.

I took a switchblade out of my pocket, an old Microtech that still worked for me, and clicked it open. For a second, I toy with the idea of just whipping around and killing Steve, cutting his throat right open, but we wouldn't get very far even if I did. Not in broad daylight. Sayori backed up into the corner, squeezing her cow toy tight, whimpering. I swallowed hard and moved towards her. I could see Monika starting to panic in the reflection off a mirror above Sayori. "N-no! Please! No more!" she screamed. Behind me, I could feel Monika start to break down, and then Steve took two strides, grabbed Sayori, and everything went straight to hell.

"Listen to him!" he yelled, as Sayori buried her face in the toy–Mr. Cow, that's what she called it–and cried. Steve ripped Mr. Cow out of her hands. Sayori cried even harder, screaming "N-no! Mr. Cow, no!" in between sobs. Steve grabbed her by the arm and started dragging her out of the room. She struggled, but it didn't matter. "Sorry for the inconvenience, doctor," Steve said on the way out. I turned, and saw Monika sobbing, tears streaming down her face, quivering. Oh, no. No, no, no. Not here. Not now. This is the worst possible time. She vomited, and I rushed over to her, trying to hold her up as she coughed and gagged.

"Monika! Monika, can you hear me!" I shouted, as she collapsed, mumbling semi-coherently. I threw one of her arms across my shoulders, and started taking her to the exit. Everything was going fine, until a guard stepped in front of the exit to the building. "What are you doing, doctor?" he asked.

"Well, I'm taking her to the hospital, so I can figure out just what the hell is causing this." He shook his head.

"Sir, she's gotta stay right here. I'll have someone down to diag–" He fell silent as he saw the look on my face, which I'm sure was suitably murderous.

"Y' listen here, motherfucker," I hissed, in the thick Brooklyn accent I reserve for when I'm with close friends or really angry. "I'm takin' 'er to an actual hospital, and you keep try'na block me off, I'm gonna force feed ya yer own goddamn nut sack, not that ya got one. Now get your fat ass outta the way." He recoiled like I'd slapped him, and I stormed past, Monika still in full panic mode, got to the parking lot, put Monika in the passenger seat, did her seatbelt, then got in and drove the hell out of there. I kept one hand on her shoulder the whole time, just holding her up so she didn't fall.

After about an hour, she woke up. I felt her sit up, and relief washed over me. "Thank god you're okay–"

"Did you get her out of there?" she asked.

It must have been that the self-loathing I felt was clear on my face, because she was instantly livid. "You DIDN'T?!" she yelled, angry enough to make me flinch. "That place is HORRIBLE, MC! A-and you just LEFT HER?! How COULD you?!"

"Monika, calm down," I said, placatingly. "I'm going back in there tomorrow, with a revised plan I came up with while trying to wake you up." I didn't actually have a new plan. But I needed her calm.

"Good," she spat out. "Because I don't want those poor people to suffer any longer. Even if it takes us years, I'm getting them out of there. Starting with the girl from today."

* * *

I kept driving in silence, trying to figure out a new plan that would work. It was clear that the guards sent everything right to hell. With the guard in the room, I couldn't make any moves, since he was right there. So I'd need to kill him, hide the body, get the girl straight out. But then what? There's still a dead guard, and the only way to get the other two was a flat-out assault.

 _Maybe an assault isn't a bad idea_ , I thought. _But how to get in? And how many troops could I get?_ Joe would be down. Maybe two or three Green Berets I knew. Not great odds. Yet again, it was an impossible task.

 _Unless._ Unless I could hit them from inside. As a doctor, I'd be able to enter without raising suspicion. Monika too, with the nurse uniform. Nobody else. Bringing the hardware in would be tough, but doable. What was hardest would be making sure every guard wasn't beelining for Wing A, since we'd have to demo the doors. _Have to blow up other targets._ The helipad, armory, the fuel station, the propane heating tank, all sizable explosions. The four guard towers, if I could. Maybe a few of the cars in the motor pool. _Can't take Monika._ She was capable, and certainly willing, but there's a big difference between a retired Special Forces sergeant who's been keeping up his shooting skills and a civilian who's never shot a gun before. Therefore I'd have to plant the charges on my own. That'd suck, but was workable. _Need a gun for the other guards_. Not the Glock 19 I had. Handguns are concealable, but not quiet enough. Suppressed, the 19 would be 125 decibels. Thunderclaps are 120, making my Glock about three times louder. Not ideal. I'd need something much better. Any suppressed submachine gun would do. I'd ask Joe. It'd be a tough sell, but he did think he owed me for Miramshah, so that might work. I'd also have to get the C4, fuses, and blasting caps from him.

 _How to fuse the C4?_ While demolitions are for the Engineer Sergeants in the Special Forces, we all knew the basics, and I wasn't going to have to do much other than rig the demo and set the fuses. The real question was how to rig them. _Command-detonated or time-fused?_ Command-detonated would give me the diversion on command, but time-fused would give me a predictable window of time to work with, allowing me to coordinate with Monika. Command-detonated would be also easier to coordinate, since I'd be guessing and checking with the time fuses, because you can't initiate those remotely, so I'd get a bunch of scattered explosions at different times. _Maybe command-initiated timers? Yeah, let's do those. Coordination._ Military radios would be ideal, PRC-148s or -152s, but those were too big. Small walkie-talkies would do the trick. I could get them from Radio Shack, plus earpieces. _Split the other two hostages._ I'd get one, Monika could get the other. _What about the first hostage?_ I'd sneak her out to a van I'd use to get the rest out, that I'd have to steal, then double back. _How am I going to do that?_ I could have Monika get a guard about my size to move the hostage, then I'd take his uniform. Just get some normal clothing for the hostage. _Can Monika get a hostage on her own?_ Maybe, but the guards would come rushing, and she'd have to fight them off. Best not to chance it. I'd double back to her position after I got the second.

 _Where am I going to hide Monika?_ My office won't work. Also, there were plenty of cameras, so they'd see her moving. _Hit the security office on the way to the van, park her there, have her wipe the tapes? Yeah. When to execute?_ Broad daylight was out. There are shift changes every six hours, so those would provide the window for the hit–sometime between shift changes. 1800 hours to midnight, and then 0030 to 0600 hours. It'd be darkest during the latter, but that would cut both ways. _But the latter window we could execute right now–no, that's stupid. We need sleep. Have to execute tomorrow. Well, maybe not_. It was only ten at night–2200 hours. That left a nice big window to make it work. And we hadn't been up all that late just yet.

"Monika?" I said.

"Yeah?" she replied, turning her head.

"I have another plan that we can execute in–" I did the math–"six hours. And we can get all three subjects."

"Then let's do that one!" she exclaimed.

"There are a few problems," I said. "I'm going to have to kill people. Not just one, either. Lots of people. And we might have to deal with a running gunfight on the way out, but probably not."

"Okay, let's still do it," she said, without hesitation. She really doesn't care if the cultists die, I realized. Only that we rescue them. That's all that matters to her. But there was one thing that did.

"And I'm going to have to call a friend. Not to go in with us," I said, trying to cut off her protests. "But to supply the stuff we'll need."

Silence. "You promise that's it?" she asked. "He's just giving us what we need?"

"I promise," I said.

"Call him," she answered.

I punched in Joe's number, put my phone on speaker, and tossed it on the dashboard.

"Hey, MC, what's–"

"Joe, you remember those low-vis kits you used while we were sheep-dipped?" I asked? "I need one that has a suppressed submachine gun, plus fifteen pounds of C4 and some blasting caps with detonators. Command-detonated or time-fused is fine, but command-initiated timers are best. I also need five medical kits and an emergency surgical kit."

"MC, I can't–" he started.

"You owe me for Miramshah, Joe, and I'm calling it in. Get your ass in gear, I need that kit in–" I checked my watch–"four hours. Meet me in the parking lot of the bar we met at, with the gear, four hours from now."

"Jesus, MC, okay. Will you just tell me what this is about?" he asked.

I glanced at Monika, then looked back at the road. "Son Tay," I said. "Or Operation Kingpin, or Polar Circle, or Ivory Coast, or whatever the hell you want to call it." Monika looked confused, but then she had during the entire conversation.

"You got room for one more shooter?" he asked. "I really do owe you, y'know."

"My fight, Joe. I got it."

"Okay, MC. I'll get it for you." He hung up.

"Son Tay?" Monika asked. "What's that?"

"Special Forces operation," I said. "To rescue American POWs in North Vietnam." I didn't mention that the raid had involved crashing a helicopter into the courtyard of the complex, nor that no prisoners were recovered, despite the ground battle being a clear American victory.

"Oh," she said. "So he knows what's generally–"

"Yep."

"And what about Miramshah? What does he owe you for?" she asked.

Not all that much, I thought. "Doesn't matter. He'll come through."

She looked dubious. "If you say so. What now?" she asked. I checked my watch. 22:18. Time enough.

"Now, I go visit a hardware store."

* * *

At 23:30, I walked out of the Home Depot with a sledgehammer, bolt cutters, pliers, and a crowbar, plus thirty feet of nylon rope and a few carabiners, and two radios with earpieces from the Radio Shack just up the road. Joe called. "Hey, I got everything you need. You want to grab it now?" he asked.

I figured it couldn't hurt. "Sure," I said. "See you in an hour." I hung up and walked to the car. Told Monika where to drive, and sat back. We pulled into the parking lot a hour later. I saw him leaning against an SUV and started to hop out, and Monika did too. I looked at her for a second, then shrugged and kept going. I figured she was entitled to meet Joe. She fell in right behind me, and we walked up to him. He held out his hand, and we shook. "Joe, this is Monika. Monika, this is Joe," I said.

Joe smiled. "Nice to meet you, Monika..?" She looked confused. "Do you have a last name?"

She shook her head. "Just Monika."

He raised an eyebrow. "Just Monika?"

"Just Monika," she said back.

"Just Monika?" he asked, amazed, and not in a good way. He looked at me. "Just Monika?" I nodded. "Just Monika. Okay." He popped the trunk. "Here. Fifteen pounds of C4, ten home-made command-initiated time detonators with blasting caps pre-attached, one detonator-slash-initiator, one suppressed submachine gun with plenty of ammo, and some extra goodies."

I smiled. "Thanks, Joe."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Wasn't hard." It was a blatant lie–fifteen pounds of C4 doesn't just disappear–but whatever. "Just don't do anything that'll get me on the news at eleven."

I chuckled. "Wilco." I sensed he wanted to talk alone, so I gave her the bag. "Can you put that in the car?" She walked off, and I turned back. Joe did not look impressed.

"Dude, the hell?" he asked. "What's with this 'Just Monika' shit?"

I sighed. "She's got trust issues. Had a pretty fucked-up life. Not my place to talk about it."

"And her fucked-up life has to do with the whole prison break, right?" he asked. "Are you sure–"

"Look, Joe," I said. "There are a number of things I would do for a sufficiently pretty woman. Killing is not one of them. This is of my own accord. I had to talk her into this."

He sighed. "Okay, MC. Just don't fuck me on this."

"I won't, Joe," I promised.

He smiled. "Good luck!" he shouted, as I walked away, back to the car.

As Monika drove, I kept my mind blank and focused on my breathing, to stay calm. In, two, three, four. It was 0100 hours. We arrived at 0130. It's 0200 now. Monika will be back soon, so I need to finish fast. We showed up. Everyone thought I was burning the midnight oil, getting extra work done. Dr. Libitina either isn't here or asleep, I don't know which. Either way, he didn't confront me about the new nurse's breakdown and me rushing her out. Neither did any of the other guards, due to the shift change. I went right to my office, and she went to get Yuri from Room 114. They'll manacle her up and send her here with only the one guard, who'll be covering her with a gun the whole time. Whatever. I'll manage. I don't know what Joe packed me–I didn't check the bag yet–but I trust him, so I'm not worried.

Well, they're here.

 _ **I'LL MAKE THEM PAY**_

* * *

I finish scribbling the last four words, putting extra force into them and underlining them, as a guard, Monika, and Yuri walk into the room. I close the journal, put it in a jacket pocket, and stand up, the duffel. "Put her up against the wall," I order the guard. He slams Yuri face-first into it, and she screams.

"Shut up!" he yells. He's my size, so I don't want to get blood on his uniform. I'm going to need it, after all. "You worthless bitch!"

I click open my knife, and Yuri shrieks. The guard laughs. "That's right, you psycho–"

He doesn't finish the sentence, because I grab him by the collar and yank him back as I drive the knife right into his brain stem, at the base of the skull. Instant ragdoll. I lower him to the ground, find the keys to the cuffs, and toss them to Monika, who's looking at the guard's body with grim satisfaction on her face. She goes to work on the cuffs while I strip the guard's body of anything useful. I take his Glock–a 19, like mine–and his two spare magazines. I take the magazines for myself and give the Glock to Monika. I lock the door, and strip the guard.

"What are you doing?" Yuri asks.

I start to answer, but Monika cuts me off. "We're getting you out of here," she says. "And these people aren't going to hurt you ever again."

"But you hurt him," she said. "You killed him."

I look up at her. "Yes," I say. "And he would have hurt you, and I don't plan on letting that happen again."

"Y-you mean that?" Yuri asks. "You really mean it?"

I feel my heart break, shattering into about a million pieces. "Yes," I say. "I really do."

She starts to cry. "Hey," I say. "I have to go now, but I'll be right back, I promise. Fifteen minutes, and I'll be back here. I promise."

She looks at me. "What's your name?" she asks.

"MC. My name is MC," I tell her. I point to Monika. "Her name is Monika. She's going to stay with you and get you changed into some new clothes, okay? I have to go now." I finish stripping the body and shove his clothes and kit into the backpack, which I throw over my shoulder. I yank the knife out of his skull, close it, and put it in my pocket, then walk through the door. There's a single-stall bathroom, and I quickly change in there. I walk out, dressed just like a guard, still carrying the backpack. I quickly walk over to the security room, look around, and knock twice on the door. "Hey!" I shout. "Open up!" The door opens a few seconds later, and I push the guard back into the room and slash the knife across his lower stomach, disemboweling him. He opens his mouth to scream, but I quickly duck past him and slam the knife into his brain stem, just like the first guy, but parallel to him, facing opposite directions, yanking him forwards. I quickly close the door and check myself for blood. None. There's none in the hallway either. Perfect. I drag his body over into a corner of the room and leave it there, then turn and leave the security room, leaving the door unlocked. I walk back to my office and knock, shave-and-a-hair-cut, six-bits. The door opens, and I walk inside.

"Hey. You all good?" I ask Yuri, who's in a nurse's uniform like Monika's. She's wearing the glasses that the cult made for her, that they were gonna give her when she became the person they wanted her to be. Well, they failed. And now they're gonna die for what they did.

Yuri nods. "Okay," I say, "Then we should go." I pick up the bag carrying the C4 and other toys, and the three of us start walking the route to the outside. We pass by the security office and stop. I turn to Monika. "Remember the plan?" I ask.

She nods. "Cover the cameras, don't let anyone in, let you know where the patrols are. Wipe the tapes and destroy the recording devices once the timers start."

I smile. "Okay. You got this." I turn to leave.

"Wait!" she says. I turn back, and she kisses me on the cheek before I can react, startling me. "For luck," she tells me. I blink twice, shocked. "Now go get her out of here. Go!" She waves her hand, shooing us out as she closes and locks the door, and this time, me and Yuri start moving for real. We walk through the hospital unchallenged, because Yuri doesn't look like the Yuri the guards know, not with glasses and a nurse's uniform instead of bandages and chains. We get outside, and make it across the courtyard unchallenged. I see Yuri look around, amazed by simple things like trees and birds and grass, and I can't wait to get the other two out.

We approach the parking lot. Only the one guard there, as usual. I knock on the guard box. "Hey," I say. "Need the keys to the van." There's also only the one van for the cult. Few others have personal vehicles. The guard nods and grabs the keys, and hands them to me, arm outstretched. I grab his arm and slash the knife across his wrist, cutting it down to the bone. Bright red blood spurts out, and I ram the knife into his throat, blade down. He gurgles, blood mixing with air from his cut-up windpipe, and I rip the knife out to the side, slicing open the right side of his neck, destroying his jugular vein, and also slitting a hole in his carotid artery as the end of the blade closest to the hills swings in. Blood hoses out with the beating of his heart, and he collapses in a large pool of his blood. I grab the keys off the ground, turn, and see Yuri looking at me, shocked.

"Jesus, MC," I hear Monika say over the radio. "That–oh my god." She's on cameras for sure.

"Roger," I say, then grab Yuri by the shoulder and hustle to the van. I open the double doors in the back, and get her inside, before shutting the doors behind me. She starts to cry.

"Hey, what's wrong?" I ask. "Are you okay?" She just cries harder. "Come on, tell me."

"Y-you–you killed him," she stutters.

Oh. Right. She saw that. "Look," I say. "I'm not hurting anyone who didn't hurt you. Anyone who did that deserves exactly what they get. I mean–what they did to you, it's unforgivable."

"But you didn't have to kill him!" she shouts.

"Yes, I did," I say calmly. "Because I'm going back for the others, and that will take an hour. He would have noticed when only I got out of the van and did nothing with the keys. So I need you to stay here for an hour, while I go save the others. Okay?"

"O-o-okay," she stutters. I nod, and drop the bag on the ground. I open it up.

It's time to be a fucking hero.


	2. Assault

_Okay, this chapter has the rest of the bloody vengeance resulting from the escape. Now, the changelog._

 _First,_ _the cult's Glock 29s became Glock 19s. Why? Because the 29 is a subcompact (small gun), and you carry those concealed, not as a duty handgun (the thing you carry everyday for your job). One that would make more sense for that would be the Glock 20, a full-size variant of the original 9mm Glock 17, chambered in 10mm like the 29. Now, I think 10mm is great on paper, but in practice, not so much. Anyone can tell you from experience–including me–that 10mm has harsh, sharp recoil, and while it's not uncontrollable, compared to the softer push of a .45 or the quicker, lighter snap of a 9mm, it's way up there in terms of recoil. As a matter of fact, the .40 Smith & Wesson cartridge only exists because the FBI determined that the 10mm's recoil was too much for the average agent, so S&W watered the cartridge down by shortening the case and removing some gunpowder. This led to the .40 S&W being called the .40 Short & Weak by some. Not that it's either of those–in terms of performance, "ball" (regular) ammunition is pretty much exactly between 9x19mm Parabellum and .45 ACP. And the recoil, while not as powerful as the 10mm Auto, is still worse than either .45 ACP or 9mm, due to having the same sharp bark of a 10mm, though with less force._

 _Continuing on with the Glocks, the .40 S &W has also been recently rejected by the FBI, though not because of excessive recoil. No, the reason the .40-cal is out the door is because of the leaps and bounds that 9mm hollowpoints have taken, and since a 9mm JHP (Jacketed Hollowpoint) round is now just as effective, if not more so, than it's .40-cal cousin, the FBI is switching to those due to the lesser recoil and larger magazine size. I specifically chose the 19 model because they're more concealable, and work just fine as a duty handgun, allowing them to serve both roles, which is ideal for a bulk purchase. I chose the Glock 19 over the Glocks 23 (.40 S&W), 25 (.380 Auto), 32 (.357 SIG, basically the .40-cal's small twin), and 38 (.45 GAP, the .45 ACP's weirder, way less popular cousin), because the Glock 25 is for police only, the Glock 38 is in a niche caliber that is in no way common, the Glock 23 is in .40 S&W, which peaked a while ago and is on its way out, and the Glock 32 suffers from the ballistic disadvantages of .40 S&W and is in an uncommon caliber, though not as uncommon as .45 GAP. Also, 9mm is cheaper to buy, yet another reason the FBI dropped the .40 S&W._

 _Also, going back to why they're not using 10mm, the 10mm Auto is bigger, which means less bullets in the same size magazine–the Glock 20, previously_ _mentioned above, holds 15 rounds compared to the Glock 17's 17-round magazine. It also has less controllable recoil, which hurts its ability to make follow-up shots, because unless you sever the brain stem or spinal column, the person you just shot is still dangerous. Shoot-until-down is policy, and if you have to take more time to make follow-up shots, that's more time you're in danger. Each individual round isn't much deadlier than a 9mm Parabellum, you get less of them per magazine, they're more expensive and it takes longer to put the same number of rounds on target. Therefore, 9mm wins._

 _Some technical_ _terms: bullet weight, measured in grains (Abbreviated gr, equivalent to 0.065 grams) is a deciding factor in weapon effectiveness. Now, while kinetic energy is one-half mass times velocity squared, that mass part is important, because there's only so much velocity you can put into a bullet. Generally speaking, lighter bullets are less effective. Of course, this isn't an absolute measure–55gr 5.56mm NATO bullets are much more lethal than 115gr 9mm Parabellums, because the 5.56mm is a rifle round, which means much more velocity. So really, the rule should be "lighter bullets are less effective than heavier bullets when both move at the same velocity"._

 _Okay, fragmentation and hollow points. Generally speaking, pistol rounds travel at 1000 feet per second, and rifle rounds travel at 1000 meters per second, so the rifle rounds have more energy. That energy can lead to more violent tumbling and yawing, which causes bigger, deadlier wounds due to them tearing and crushing more tissue. It also can lead to bullet fragmentation, which also means deadlier wounds due to the fragments creating additional damage and blood loss. More energy also leads to more bullet expansion, which inflicts larger wound channels, which leads to more damage and bleeding. Hollow point rounds are designed to take advantage of this: when they hit, they mushroom out and expand a significant amount, crushing more tissue and–yet again–making a larger wound channel, therefore more blood loss and general damage._

 _FMJ ammo isn't actually armor-piercing. It just means the bullet's core is fully covered–jacketed–by metal. Most ball ammunition is FMJ._

 _Subsonic bullets are important for suppressed weapons due to the sound of the sonic boom. It doesn't matter if you've got a suppressor for the sound of the gunshot if they hear the round go supersonic. Generally, purpose-made subsonic bullets have a heavier bullet to make up for the lack of velocity–something around 115gr is the standard for unsuppressed 9x19mm, and 147gr for suppressed._

 _Zeroing is when you take a scope's crosshairs and adjust them so that the bullet goes where they indicate under whatever conditions you're experiencing. Distance, wind, temperature, humidity, the rotation of the fucking earth, literally anything._

 _Non-ballistic changes include Natsuki getting shot at least every other week, because that is so far beyond overkill it's insane. It would also be ridiculously difficult for MC to treat._

 _We see that the FBI is starting to get involved in this chapter. I've got plans for Agent Drew, oh yes, oh yes. Mwahaha **hahacoughcoughcough.**_

 _Ahem._

 _Also, MC has a name! It's Mark Connors. He got the nickname MC from his love of hip-hop and his initials._

 _Yet again, any feedback about literally anything is greatly appreciated. Plot, characters, pacing, I will take anything and everything._

 _Also, happy Valentines day! Even though it's kinda the 15th. Still saying it._

* * *

I look inside the bag, and it's clear I've got everything I asked for, plus maybe some extras. I pull out an OD green knapsack, and open it to find 15 pounds of C4 split into 12 1.25-pound bricks and the detonator assemblies, plus a remote firing device (RFD) to start the timers. I put that to the side and root around in the bag, and pull out a Multicam plate carrier. I can tell instantly from the weight that it's got two ballistic armor plates inserted, one in front, one in back–especially since the plates weigh ten pounds together. It has three rifle magazine pouches on the front. I lift one up and see two submachine gun magazines inside, I'm not sure for what model. Presumably, the other two pouches have the same setup. There's also a grenade pouch. I look inside and yep, there's a baseball-sized M67 frag grenade in there.

I set that aside as well and pull out a holster, a simple drop-leg that gets strapped to your thigh. It's empty, so I stuff my Glock in it and set that on top of the plate carrier. I dig around some more, and find a helmet. I pull it out. It's in Multicam, just like the plate carrier, and has a helmet light and a pair of PVS-31 night vision goggles attached. I switch on the helmet light, then switch it off. It works fine. I put that on the pile. I root around, find a gun case, pull it out, open it, and smile.

I didn't expect Joe to give me something all that great, truth be told. Worst-case, I'd get some old Russian piece of trash, like the piece-of-shit AEK-919K they're in love with. Best-case, I'd get an MP5SD, which was the gold standard for suppressed weapons up until the late '90s, and is still pretty amazing. I'd expected something somewhere in-between. But Joe has really come through, better than I expected. Better than even the best case. He hasn't just given me a suppressed submachine gun. He hasn't just given me a short submachine gun, which is even better because something small and light lets me move fast. He's given me _the_ best possible weapon.

I inspect the MP7A1. Heckler & Koch designed it in the '90s for NATO rear-echelon supply troops. The specs from the NATO requirement required it to be able to pierce Russian kevlar vests at 200 meters, so the bullets are small and light–4.6x30mm, which means a bullet 4.6 millimeters in diameter. The standard bullets are supposed to weigh 31 grains, which is incredibly light. It's supposed to be absurdly quiet, according to rumors and a bunch of loudmouth SEALs who should know better. It's also supposed to be used at 50 meters or closer, and nobody gets shot with it only once. Three times minimum is what I heard. I wouldn't know, though, because I've never used one. Not used by the Rangers or Special Forces. I pull back the charging handle and check the chamber. A brass case glistens. Yuri watches, disinterested.

I release the charging handle and remove the magazine from the pistol grip. I press down with my thumb, and the cartridges barely move. Fully loaded. I look at the side of the magazine, which says _40_ , presumably meaning it holds 40 rounds. I smack the magazine back into the gun. It has an EOTech sight, a Surefire weapon light, a sling, and a PEQ-15 (an infrared (IR) laser and flashlight combo, both only visible through night vision devices) all attached. I turn on the EOTech, extend the stock fully, fold out the foregrip, and shoulder the weapon. It fits like a glove.

I collapse the stock and fold the foregrip, then put it back down and keep digging. I find a leg panel with three magazine pouches meant for submachine gun mags attached, plus a pistol belt with two pistol mag pouches. I look inside the pouches on the leg panel, and yep, there's one MP7 magazine in each. The pouches on the belt are empty, so I put the two spare Glock magazines I took off the first guard in there.

I toss the leg panel and belt on the pile, and dig around some more and find a combat uniform and a boonie hat in–you guessed it–Multicam, a face camouflage kit, and a pair of hard knuckle gloves. The uniform and camo kit go back in the bag, and I chuck the gloves onto the pile. I search around some more, and find two kneepads that join the now-sizable pile. I open the bag up all the way, and see a bunch of ammo boxes in there. I grab one and look at it. _RUAG 4.6x30mm Subsonic SX 77gr, 40 rounds,_ it says on the side. _So it expands fast and is meant for suppressed weapons,_ I think. _Thanks, Joe._ There are also six kits in little pouches, each with a cross on them. The medical kits. Joe came through, all the way.

It's time to kit up.

"Hey, Yuri?" I say. "Would you mind not looking this way for a few seconds?" She nods and turns. I strip off the security guard uniform–worthless, since they don't wear body armor over or under the uniforms, or carry submachine guns, or wear helmets–and put my normal clothes on, a button-up shirt and jeans. "Okay, you can turn back now." I roll up the sleeves on the shirt and slip the gloves and kneepads on, then drop the plate carrier over my shoulders, tightening its straps. I bounce up and down twice, to make sure nothing rattles around or shifts or rustles. No sounds. I sling the MP7 and pick up the helmet, put it on my head, do the chin strap. I flip the NVGs down and switch them on. The world turns green and bright.

I bring up the MP7 and turn on the IR laser, then the illuminator, then both. It all works. I flip the NVGs up and switch them off. I lace the pistol belt through my belt loops, then attach the drop-leg and leg panel to the belt, and buckle the panel and holster around my thighs. I shove the walkie-talkie into my back pocket and leave the earpiece in, with the included throat mic on my throat. I empty out the backpack. I leave the rope, the duct tape, and the carabiners, and put the C4 and detonators inside. I drop the RFD into my left pants pocket, and my knife stays in my right. I've got 401 rounds of 4.6x30mm, 46 rounds of 9x19mm Parabellum, a knife, and 15 pounds of C4. I'm ready.

"Yuri, I need you to stay here, okay?" I tell her. "I'll be back in an hour, but right now, I need you to wait here." I check my watch. 02:38. "I have to get moving now and go get the others. Listen, no matter what, you stay here. Even if things get very loud and scary, I need you to stay here."

She starts to cry. "But–but what if they try–" she stutters. "What if they try and get me?"

I hug her close, and she hugs back. "Then I'll protect you. I'll hurt them before they hurt you," I say. "I promise. But I have to go now, okay?"

"Okay," she sniffles.

I smile at her, then open the doors to the van, climb out, and shut them.

* * *

"Comms check," I say over the radio, standing in the parking lot. "Go for MC."

"Go for Monika," I hear back. "Wave for me," she says.

I raise my right hand and wave. "Okay, MC, I see you." I put my hand down and start walking fast through the parking lot, extending the MP7's stock and shouldering it, then unfolding the foregrip and resting my hand there.

"Monika, kill the lights to the parking lot," I say. "You can do that, right?"

"Yep," she says. Ten seconds later, the lights go out. I flip down the NVGs. Unlike what you've seen in the movies, most NVGs only have a 40-degree field of view. Single-tube NVGs are worse than dual-tube, due to the lack of close-in depth-perception, but both have a field of view like looking through two toilet paper tubes, only everything is green. It's still much better than nothing. I stalk forward, waiting to see if the guards in the towers notice. Nope. I can't see them moving, or noticing me, even though the lights are out. But they'll get suspicious soon.

"Okay, kill the lights to the whole place, then get on the PA system and say there's been an electrical malfunction," I tell her. I wait another ten seconds, and then all the lights die. It's dark out, overcast with no moon, and the NVGs are just bright enough for me to see clearly. I switch on the IR flashlight at low-power and set the laser to high, so that I'll be able to see where the laser is even with the flashlight on. I can hear the PA system just over the sound of the wind, Monika's voice carrying the distance to my ears.

"Done," she says, and I start moving again, past the gate, past the third dead guard, and I'm back in the compound. I look left, then right, my head on a swivel. I spot a two-man patrol 50 meters away, right at the edge of my engagement range. The vengeful part of me screams to shoot them, but the practical part says that it's not time for them to die just yet. I get up and start moving towards the first guard tower. I close to fifteen meters, far enough so my footsteps aren't audible, not on the concrete, and drop to one knee, then slip my finger inside the MP7's trigger guard and take aim at the guard by the entrance. I click the selector to semi-automatic and put the laser right on his head, then pull the trigger. It gently recoils against my shoulder as I fire twice, a quick double tap. _Popop._ Just like that. He falls right to the ground, and I scan around to see if anyone heard either the shots or his body falling. It doesn't look like anyone did–the gun is living up to its hype–so I hurry over to him and drag him into the corner where the walls meet. The guard towers are made of wood, maybe 30 feet tall, and are built on the inside corners of the walls. It shouldn't take much C4 to bring one down. I take the backpack off my shoulders and extract one of the bricks of C4 and a detonator. I push the blasting caps into the C4 and do some mental math, then set the timer for 15 minutes.

I get on the radio again. "Be advised," I whisper. "Charges primed and in place on the northeast guard tower. The timers are set for fifteen minutes. Once we start the clock, we'll have that long to get to the third objective."

"Okay, MC," I hear Monika say, sounding slightly exasperated. Must not like all the militarese. I get up again, and take care to start moving around the guard tower. I peer into it, and it looks like the rifleman up top is looking out, making sure that nobody comes in to attack the compound from the outside. Good. That way, they won't see me moving, since the courtyard is completely empty. For a second, I toy with the idea of climbing up there and stealing his rifle, then dismiss it. He'd hear me coming. I stand up and start moving again, heading for the propane heating tank. There are two guards right outside it, looking around, talking to each other a little loudly. They look like their eyes still haven't adjusted yet, peering into the darkness. Not a big problem. I click the selector switch to full-auto–and then freeze.

I hear footsteps and an argument right behind me, boots on concrete, maybe twenty meters away. I slowly lie down on the ground on my chest and roll over to my back. Two guards, conversing kinda loudly. I put the laser on the first one's chest, ready to fire if they see me. No flashlights were issued to these guys–or any of them, really, I realize, or they'd be using them. Yeah, these guys are really not the first string. Eleventh or twelfth, maybe. They pass, and I silently pick myself back up, turn around, center the laser on the left-side guard's chest, the one farthest from the propane tank, and fire. The MP7 shoots absurdly fast–950 rounds per minute, which works out to almost sixteen shots per second–and he takes about four or five rounds before collapsing. His buddy starts to turn, but I beat him to the punch and send another burst of four into his chest. He goes down too. I click the selector back to singles and put two into each head, making sure both guards die. I stalk in closer to the propane tank.

I hear left-side propane guard's radio buzz. "Able One, come in. Able One, come in, over."

I quickly pick up the radio and speak into it. "This is Able One, over."

"Oh, good," I hear the static-y voice say. "Thought I heard something bad happen to you." I smirk. That's right, you dumb motherfuckers, keep lookin' the other way.

"All good here," I say. "Over and out." I put the radio back and drag his body behind the propane tank, where he won't be seen, then double back and do the same to the other guard. I think about what target I want to hit next. The armory? The helipad? Another guard tower? My backpack isn't exactly empty, but it isn't really full, either. And I could use a rifle. Armory it is.

I feel a raindrop on my forearm, and smile. Rain means good things. It means the already meager amount of light is going to get cut down even more. It also means that the guards won't be able to hear as well. They might even try not to get wet and end up staying stationary, but probably not. Doesn't matter. It's not raining that hard yet. Barely drizzling. I get up and start moving. The armory isn't too big–maybe thirty meters square–but it's got two guards outside. I can just barely see them, leaning against its walls. I circle around it, coming closer to being directly in front. The rain's starting to kick up. It's not drizzling, but it's not exactly soaking. "If it ain't raining, we ain't training," I can hear my old Ranger platoon sergeant say.

I bring the MP7 to my shoulder, tucking the stock in tight, and slip my finger inside the trigger guard. I aim the laser at the right-side guard's head and silently count down. Three, two, one, _go._ I pull the trigger and the gun recoils gently against my shoulder, spitting hot metal. The first guard melts into the ground and I traverse right to the second, taking an extra moment to line up the shot perfectly, then shoot again, sending a whole bunch of bullets into his chest. Bullet holes erupt from his torso, leaking blood, and I quickly move in close to the armory. There's a card reader. I take an ID card off one of the guards and swipe it, unlocking the door. I open it and burst inside, looking left and right, checking corners. It's empty. I walk back to the door, open it, and drag the two bodies inside. Then, I change magazines, retaining the partially empty one, which is about half-empty, I judge from the weight. They only issue the ones with unlimited ammo to the movie stars, and "I've got a full thirty rounds" is always better than "I... _think_ I have twenty-five?" Always. I let the MP7 hang on its sling and investigate the armory.

Now, while the NVGs let me see pretty well, it's not perfect, and I'd prefer lights. Which, well, I have. I flip up the NVGs, switch them off and turn on the helmet lights. I look around. I revise my earlier assessment of the cult as focused mostly on their horrific research, with security being mostly an afterthought.

There are a _lot_ of guns here.

I walk over to one gun rack. It has a bunch of AR-15 semi-auto carbines with Aimpoint red-dot sights and foregrips. They have magazines inserted. I pick up one of the carbines off the rack and remove the magazine. I press-check the rifle, pulling back the charging handle, and see a round in the chamber. I pull the charging handle back all the way and eject the round, then push out the two pins keeping the upper and lower recievers together and put them in the backpack. I walk to another gun rack. This one has SR-25 rifles on it, which are basically AR-15s in a bigger caliber. They have 4-16x scopes, suppressors, and bipods. I take one, remove the magazine, rack the charging handle, and break it down. It goes in the backpack, which keeps getting heavier–it must be up to twenty pounds by now. I open up a few drawers, finding a couple of the cult's standard-issue Glock 19s with their trademark eye symbol engraved onto the barrel. Eventually, I find a drawer with magazines, and take three spares, sweeping them into the backpack. There are also a couple of twenty-round boxes of ammunition, old M193 rounds that were retired in the '80s but still see some use with civilians today. I take six boxes, shoving them into the backpack. I then remove the C4 and detonators and put them in another section of the backpack, 'cause I'm still gonna blow this place up. I take the rest of the ammo boxes and dump them on the floor.

I keep looking for ammo, and dump out the boxes every time I find them, except for match-grade 7.62mm ammunition, all US Army standard M118LR. I keep five of those boxes, and take three spare SR-25 magazines. The C4 will definitely destroy the place, but having the bullets to add kaboom can't mean anything but a bigger explosion, and right now, size matters. I take two blocks of C4 and shove them inside the massive pile of cartridges, pushing in the detonators and setting the timers for 15 minutes. "Okay," I say over the radio. "Armory's rigged to blow. Moving to the helipad now."

I switch off the helmet lights, flip down the NVGs and switch 'em on, then open the door and step out. It's like the heavens have torn in half, and rain is bucketing down all around. I see what looks like maintenance workers walking off somewhere. To fix the "electrical problem", I realize. Well, whatever. They can't actually power anything back on. I decide my next targets are going to be the helicopter and the aviation fuel tanks. The former, to hurt their ability to search, and the latter, for the earth-shaking kaboom. I set off at a fastish pace for the landing pad. It's got metal scaffolding, forty feet high, slick with rain, but climbable. Two guards at the base, guarding the fuel, two at the top, guarding the helo. I reach the pad and circle under it, taking aim at one of the guards by the fuel tanks. I pull the trigger, and the gunshots are barely audible over the rain. He collapses, the sound of his body smacking the ground causing the other guard to turn, just in time for another burst to cave in his face and remove the entire back of his head, spattering blood and brains all over the place. I rush in to the fuel tanks and dig a fourth C4 block out of my bag 'o fun, sticking in the detonator and setting the timer. I move back to the scaffolding. There are stairs, but the stairs are predictable, easy to watch...

I collapse the MP7's stock and let it hang on the sling, grab onto the scaffolding and start climbing. I'm about halfway up when my shoe slips and I fall back. "MC!" I hear Monika shout over the radio. I pull myself back up and hook my arm through the metal tubes, taking a quick breather. "As you can see," I whisper on the radio, "I'm fine." Soaked, heart pounding from adrenaline, fifty or sixty pounds of gear on me, but fine. I resume my climb to the top in silence, reaching it after about a minute. The two guards are at opposite ends. One is leaning on the slippery railing, the other standing in the opposite corner by the stairs.

I climb up a little more, the rain drowning out the sound, and suddenly shoot up, grabbing the guard leaning on the railing. He starts to yelp as he falls, but he hits the ground before anyone can hear him. "Holy shit!" I hear the other guard exclaim, right before I hit him with a long burst of seven or eight bullets, one-handed. The recoil, while still gentle, is enough to lift the point of aim from his upper chest, up his neck, right between his eyes, where the last round penetrates the cranial vault and severs his brain stem. He's out like a light. I pull myself over the railing and get closer to the chopper. I pull out another two bricks of C4–I have six left, half of what I started with–then push in the detonators and set the timers. I put one at the base of the rotors and toss the other on one of the seats in the cockpit.

"MC, people are starting to get suspicious about the lights. What do I do?" Monika radios.

I think for a few seconds. "Restore power to the hospital," I say. "That should keep them quiet for a little." After about ten seconds, my NVGs flare a bit as Monika turns the hospital lights back on. I start moving again. I don't have charges on the other three watchtowers, but we're burning time, and I can shoot the marksmen on the way out. "All charges in place," I tell Monika. "Start the clock?" She doesn't answer for a few seconds, still thinking. "Monika?"

"I'm here," she says.

"Am I starting the countdown?" I ask. I check my watch. 03:04. It's been twenty-six minutes since I left Yuri in the van. I feel guilty about just leaving her, but I have to in order to save the other two.

"Yes," Monika says after a few seconds. "Let's do it." I pull the radio firing device from my pocket and remove the safety, then squeeze the lever right as my watch says 03:05. "Tick, tock," I say, and start moving down the stairs, heading for the hospital. Monika gets back on the radio. "Hey, they're moving one of them," she says. "The one with pink hair." Natsuki.

"Where are they taking her?" I ask in a whisper, still moving. It's still pouring rain.

"Up the elevator to the–oh, god. Oh, no, no, no." Monika sounds panicky. Not good.

"Monika!" I whisper harshly. "Focus. Tell me where they're taking her and I'll get her first."

"They're taking her to some torture chamber on the second floor," she says. "Get her! Hurry!" I keep moving at the same pace. No point in being sloppy just because Natsuki's in trouble. I slip up, she might die, I might die, we might all die. That is what is referred to by the brass as an "impatient soldier heroically killed rushing to complete the mission", and by the troops as "some impatient dipshit getting whacked". I'm not exactly moving at a crawl, but I'm not racing along, either. I reach the edge of the hospital building after two minutes. Twelve still remain before everything explodes. There's a ladder to the roof, and a plan forms in my mind.

It's not a perfect plan, but it should work well enough. Lightning flashes, making my NVGs flare, and now I know I've got a chance. I change the MP7's magazines, then hold it in my right, barrel pointed at the sky, climbing the ladder with my left. I reach the top of the roof, and nobody's home. Good. I take the SR-25 out of the backpack and put it together. I open up one of the ammo boxes and load a magazine, then smack it into the rifle and key the bolt release. I look on the side of the rifle, and yep, there's a dope card. At least their marksmen know what they're doing. I find the settings for the 100 yard zero and dial them into the scope. There's occasional gusts but no wind, so I don't bother dialling in windage. Lightning flashes, and I start counting, _one thousand two thousand BOOM._

A few seconds later, lightning flashes again, _one thousand two thousand BOOM._ I take aim at the southeast sniper. He's still looking at the outside. I start counting, _one thousand two thousand_ POP. The round flies, and hits him square in the chest. He collapses like an eighteen-wheeler full of bricks fell on him from 30,000 feet. Nobody hears anything, the sound of the gunshot being covered by the thunder. I turn again, and lighting flashes as I do. I bring the crosshairs onto the second marksman's chest and fire just as the thunder, well, thunders. He goes down too. I traverse yet again and bring the rifle on target, then wait. _Flash one thousa–_ ** _BOOM_** goes the thunder, smashing down just outside the walls. It's getting closer. A lot faster than it has any right to be, but whatever. _Flash one thousand tw–_ POP, goes the count, and then the shot and the thunder at the same time. The last sniper goes down, a 175-grain hollow point in his chest. I check my watch. 03:10. I remove the magazine and eject the chambered round, then break down the SR-25 and stash it in the backpack, taking out the rope again.

The rope doesn't have walls, just railings, so I tie the rope to a carabiner and then carabiner the rope to itself around a railing. The "torture chamber" Natsuki's in has two rooms: the torture room itself, and an observation room. An observation room with a window to the outside. I grab the rope and start to walk down the walls, counting windows and guessing. I'm exposed out here, and would like to not be exposed to lots of trigger-happy guards. Even one bullet, even if it just grazes you, will really fuck up your day. I work my way down the rope, MP7 hanging on its sling, and reach the second floor. "Monika," I whisper. "Am I outside the right room?" It's stopped thundering, but it's still raining. I check my watch. 03:12. Cutting it close here.

"I think," says Monika. "Look inside the window to your left?" I flip up the NVGs–being blinded is not on the agenda– and peer inside one of the windows. Yep, that's the one. I can see Natsuki, chained to a chair, with a plate of food in front of her. She strains against them, and I see her mouth open in a scream. Must have shocked her. Doug's the doctor inside, with two guards, all in the torture part. There's one guard watching in the observation room. Okay. "Jesus, Mark, go get in there!" Monika is screaming now.

"Keep your voice down!" I hiss, and then swing my boots onto the windowpane.

Yep, it's time to do something stupid.

* * *

Many people say that if you do something stupid and it works, it's not stupid.

These people are idiots who don't understand that sometimes, things are considered stupid for a reason, and if you do something stupid and it works, it's still stupid and you're lucky. For example, dynamic entry through a window, while practiced by many special operations forces, is not a first resort, because of the significant chance of injury on the glass. It's also noisy, restricts the amount of firepower you can carry, and is easily seen.

But it was my best option, so I kicked off the glass and swung in, two sneakers leading the way and crashing into Observation Guard's back. He starts to yell, until I cover his mouth with my hand and quickly roll him over so I'm straddling him. He starts to scream again, and I wrap my gloved hands around his neck, throttling him. Now, if properly applied, a choke that cuts off blood to the brain, properly applied, can have someone unconscious in about ten seconds. If sloppily done, you might have a minute, maybe two. The first method is professional. The second is for people who really hate the chokee or have no idea what they're doing. I really hate this guy, and I know what I'm doing. He coughs and chokes, struggling around. He's a fighter, but he can't fight forever. Eventually, he goes limp. I pick up my MP7, place the end of the suppressor to his forehead, and pull the trigger. Then I stand up and walk to the door. I check my watch. 03:14. Six minutes. _MOVE!_

I pull my foot back and smash it into the door, just above the lock. It flies inwards, and I burst into the room, hearing the guards shouting. The first guard gets a burst to the chest, and the second gets another set of shots right into his head. I see Doug sweeping his labcoat back, probably going for a gun, and shoot him in the kneecap three or four times. It's hard to be precise when your gun's on full-auto and shoots really fast. He falls flat on his face, letting the gun go, and I kick it away–a Glock 19, cult standard issue–and stomp on the back of his head. He screams in pain, and I roll him over. "Y-you!" he shouts. "What do you think you're doing!" I drop down and straddle him. "You won't get far," he laughs. "I know you won't. We'll get you, _Doctor_ Connors."

"Sure, you will," I laugh. "I'll be waiting. And I'll kill them too, Doug." I planned out a speech, while me and Monika drove around. That was kind of the start, but not really. Had to adapt it a little. It was full of all sorts of wonderful dialog, and illustrative metaphors. It sounded super corny. About how in the end, visiting violence on those who can't fight back is always a losing proposition. About how the evil that men do always catches up to them. But then I think about Dr. Libitina, and realize there's no point. He already drank the Kool-Aid a long time ago. So it's killing time, instead. " _Payback's a motherfucker,_ " I snarl, and crush his throat with a punch. He gasps and wheezes. There's no point. His windpipe has closed up so he can't pull enough oxygen through his throat to support himself. A tracheatonomy might save him, but he doesn't have enough time. A few minutes, maybe. Me and Monika will be getting the girls out of here soon enough. I walk over to the chair, and start undoing the chains. Natsuki looks at me in awe.

"Nemesis..." she says, trailing off. She's so small. She barely looks ten years old. There are so many old rusty stains on her uniform. Blood. Hers. I can still hear Doug struggling to breathe behind me, and I'm glad he's dying slow. I finish undoing the chains. "Can you walk?" I ask. She tries to stand, but falls to the floor with a grunt. "Okay," I say. I sling her over my shoulders lengthwise, her upper chest on one, her waist and legs on the other. I hold her left leg with one hand and the MP7 with the other. She's so light. She barely weighs anything at all, nothing but skin and bone. Jesus. Step one once we bug out: food. "Chiru..." I hear her whisper, and it occurs to me she might not be speaking English. "What's that?" I ask.

"The freedom star," she mutters. "You're taking me to freedom, right?"

"I'm getting you out," I say.

"Hey," she whispers. "You're soaked." I am. My clothes probably weigh about as much as I do right now. Well, no time to stop now.

"Monika," I say over the radio. "Moving to you." I check my watch. Four minutes. This'll be fun. "Hold on tight," I tell Natsuki, and kick open the door to the outside.

Freedom time.

* * *

When conducting close-quarters battle, there are two philosophies.

The first, developed in the 1970s, involves incredibly fast movement, loud noises, flashbangs everywhere, and overwhelming force. Speed, surprise, violence of action. Perfect for taking down an airliner or cruise ship; less useful for urban raids on a bombmaking facility, or some HVT's house.

The second, developed in Afghanistan and Iraq, is slower, more methodical, and involves stealth to a greater degree. With this style, you try to maximize your surprise and be completely thorough when clearing a structure. Excellent for night raids in the Hindu Kush, or anywhere else quiet is important.

And they're both meant for teams of at least four people at the absolute minimum. Now, if I had my entire A-Team with me, that'd be great. We could just rip the place apart. And I'm sure my old Ranger platoon would love to get in on the action. Plus a whole bunch of Joe's guys. A good sixty or seventy people. But I don't have that many. I have just me. So the tactics are gonna need some adapting.

I burst into the hallway, and quickly scan left–no guards–and right, where two guards are starting to draw. I shoot them with a quick burst each, and they collapse. Good enough, I'm still semi-stealthy. I'm sure the bashed–in window has been noted, and the security calls are coming in fast and furious. I run over to a stairwell and kick that door down. A guard goes flying back, and he eats a burst from my MP7. I turn into the stairwell and hose down the two guards standing there, then duck behind the corner and change mags, retaining the empty and hitting the bolt release. According to my watch, I have three minutes before bombs start going off. I come back around the corner and advance down the stairwell, making it to the first floor without incident. I open the door, and sweep wide around it, slicing the pie, making sure it's clear before entering and scanning left and right. No guards.

I start moving towards the security office and Monika, and a doctor comes around the corner. I raise the MP7. His eyebrows streak up and his eyes widen, and I'm glad we're able to come to a mutual agreement about his time left on earth before I blow his head off with three rounds of 4.6mm. I run up to him, clear around the corner he came from, then open a broom closet and drag his body inside. It leaves a bloody streak–head wounds bleed a _lot–_ but I should be fine for now. It won't matter in two minutes. I come out of the broom closet–and quickly duck back in as two rounds snap past my head. "MC, where are you?!" Monika shouts. "There's gunfire!"

"Yeah!" I say. "Tends to happen when you kill people!" One of the guards stalks past, and I remove my left hand from Natsuki's leg, use it to pull his gun hand down, smack the MP7 into his throat and stun him, then fire it over his shoulder. Two guards collapse from two bursts. I let go of the guard and swing the MP7 into the side of his head, then stab it forward like I'm a boxer jabbing at his opponent. His head snaps back, and I blow it off with a quick burst. I sprint down to the security room, getting ahead of the guards. One minute. I throw open the door, and Monika is right there. "Get your gun!" I shout. She takes the Glock out of her jacket pocket, and we take off down the hallway towards the cell block, Natsuki hanging on for dear life.

I can feel the C4 go off all at once, a literally earth-shaking explosion that makes me stumble for a second. Sirens start to blare, and I feel a round crack by my head. I skid to a stop, turn around, take a knee, and hose the hallway with lead. Two guards fall, and I change magazines, again retaining the empty. I get back up, turn around, and me and Monika resume our sprint. We round a corner, and a guard is right there. He's so close I can reach out and touch him, which I do: I grab him by the collar, jam the MP7 under his chin, and pull the trigger. His head explodes, and blood spatters on Monika's face. We keep moving, doorways flying by, until: Room 110. I drop the backpack. "Monika, cover me!" I shout.

"What?!" she shouts back. Right. Gunshots. Explosions. Sirens. Super fucking loud. Her ears are probably not doing great right now.

"Shoot down the hallway with your gun!" I shout. She nods and starts shooting, one or two rounds at a time. I take out a brick of C4, stick it to the door, push in a detonator, and set it for three seconds, then quickly toss the backpack to Monika, who slings it over her shoulders. I pick up the MP7 and empty yet another magazine down the hallway, 40 rounds streaking out like a pack of angry, murderous hornets. I change magazines and rack the charging handle.

Monika runs in, and I hand her the RFD. "Three second timer! Get cover!" I shout, and I advance around the doorway, guns blazing, while Monika moves back behind. I get cover in the doorway of Room 108, Natsuki still on my shoulder, popping off bursts to keep the guards' heads down. Yet another empty magazine, yet another mag change. The door blows in behind me, and Monika walks in the room. Half a minute later, an eternity in an up-close firefight, she walks back out. She has Sayori.

"MOVE!" I shout, and dump the rest of the mag in the guards' general direction. She sprints to the exit, and I toss the frag grenade from my vest down the hall, screaming "FRAG OUT!" Monika ducks while still on the run, and the two of them both go down right through the exit in a tangle of arms and legs. The grenade goes off, and I sprint down the hall, Natsuki still on my shoulders. I pick up Sayori, and start moving her to the van. She panics a little, trying to hit me, then stops. We're almost out, right by the van. She looks back and saw something.

"Mr. Cow! NO!" she shrieks. God _damn_ it, things were going so well. She struggles even harder, trying to break free. I have absolutely no time for this, and keep dragging. Then she bites my arm.

 _Motherfucker,_ that hurts.

"Kid, stop! Leave the cow!" I shout. Blood trickles down my arm as the guards come back. I drop to one knee and fire long bursts, suppressive fire to keep the guards down behind cover. Smoke rises over the compound, and in the illumination of the fire from the armory and the light from the hospital-slash-torture-prison, I can see Sayori sprinting like hell, running for the cow and the music box. Tom Hanks and Wilson, that's for sure. The magazine runs empty, and I swap it for a fresh 40-rounder, hearing Monika firing her Glock behind me. She gets three rounds off before the slide locks back. I can still hear ammunition from the armory cook off. Sayori trips, and I zero in one of the guards just behind her, then end him with ten or twelve rounds before continuing to suppress the rest, while she picks herself up. As Sayori runs, I sprint up to the van, take Natsuki off my shoulders, and throw her inside, then turn to cover Monika and Sayori. The guards are starting to get the idea that staying back is the right choice, and the gunfire is almost nonexistent, one or two guards firing sporadic shots. I run to the driver's seat as Monika scoops up Sayori and throws her inside, full-force, then sprints around to the driver's seat. "Drive!" she shouts, but I'm already flooring the gas, and we tear out of the compound at Mach 1.

* * *

I drive for two miles in silence, not saying a word. I can hear Sayori, Yuri, and Natsuki crying, thanking us, but I'm not focused on that. I'm constantly checking the mirrors, looking for tails like I was taught when I learned tactical driving. Yes, that's a thing. Yes, I did use those skills in Afghanistan. No, I won't tell you how. You're smart, figure it out.

"Mr. Cow! No!" I hear Sayori say. "I'm sorry, I didn't want to leave you," she continues. I don't take my eyes off the road. I'm pretty sure that the speedometer is in imperial, but I'm pretty sure 120 is way too damn fast to not pay attention no matter where you are. We approach the main road and the turn, and I stomp on the brakes and drift around the corner at the much more reasonable speed of 60–now I know it's in miles per hour. I see Monika look back in my peripheral vision. "Oh no, is he hurt?" she asks.

Hurt. Right. I'm gonna have to pull over and start treating these people soon. And I should probably take off the helmet, which I do with my right hand, using the left to steer. In the mirror, I see Sayori nod. Monika opens the backpack and pulls out a stuffed bird with green feathers and a top hat and comically large eyes. Where the hell did that come from? Well, she probably hid it pretty well in there. "A-ha!" she says. "I may not be any good at repairing stuff, but I do have other things!" She hands Sayori the bird. While all this is happening, I'm making random and somewhat sudden (though not dangerously so) turns, trying to see if anyone takes the bait. Nobody. We're good. I get back on course and keep driving. The second I find the shoulder, I'm pulling over and breaking out the medical supplies.

"What's his name?" Sayori asks.

"Well," says Monika, "I thought maybe you could come up with one! It's yours, after all."

"REALLY?!" Sayori exclaims, and I wince. Loud. "Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!" she squeals. "Thank you, miss–"

"Oh you can just call me Monika," Monika says, smiling.

"That's a nice name!" Sayori says, incredibly cheerful. I check my watch. 03:53. It's only been a little over an hour and a half, but it's amazing the difference that makes if the events that transpire in that time are significant enough. I find the shoulder and pull over, feeling victorious. We got them out. We did it. "Monika," I say. "Your turn to drive." I open my door, walk out, shut it, and walk around to the right side, open the sliding door, and hop in. I take off the hard-knuckle gloves and plate carrier, and slip on some rubber gloves instead, then start inspecting the Dokis for injuries. The first thing I notice is a new hole in Sayori's uniform, up by her shoulder, a graze right across her deltoid muscle, which is right above the bicep and tricep on the arm. I point at it. "Hey–what's your name?" I ask. I know it, but we're getting introduced, and this makes for a good icebreaker.

"Sayori," she says.

I smile. "Hi, Sayori. My name's Mark. Now, can you tell me if that hurts?"

She nods. "Y-yeah, it hurts pretty bad." I grab her arm and take her pulse at the wrist. 90 beats per minute. Kinda fast, but much better than it could be. I grab out one of the medical kits and the surgical kit, hunt around, and find a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff. I make a guess and inflate the cuff to 130 mm Hg (millimeters of mercury, the unit for measuring blood pressure). "Hey, hold out your forearm flat for me, would you?" I order Sayori. She does, and I put the stethoscope to her elbow, flat side towards the inside of her arm where the major artery is. I don't hear anything. Good. I start letting air out of the balloon keeping the cuff inflated, and I hear her blood flowing when the gauge says 104. I stop hearing it when the gauge says 68. Blood pressure 104/68. Okay, good. That's normal, so there's no major blood loss. The wound doesn't look like it's bleeding too bad, so that's extra confirmation. I dig around in the surgical kit, and find a syringe, a bottle of ketamine and a suture kit. Perfect. "Okay, Sayori," I say. I hold up the syringe and ketamine bottle. "I'm going to have to inject this. It's going to hurt a little, but then you'll feel all better, okay?"

"Okay," she says, nervous. I motion for her to lie down, and she does. I find the vein and swab it with alcohol, then prepare the syringe, inject the ketamine, and quickly cover the wound with a cotton ball and a bandage. I wait a minute, and then she stops wincing. That's the thing about ketamine: unlike morphine, instead of not feeling the pain, you just don't care as much. It puts you in a sort of dissociative trance. I open up the suture kit and start stitching up the wound while Sayori just sits there. I finish quickly. "Hey, Sayori? Stay still, okay?" She nods, and I change gloves, then move over to Natsuki.

Natsuki's face is basically one big bruise. I don't have ice packs, but I do have nose plugs for the nosebleed. I get one out and give it to her. "Put it in your nose," I say. "To stop the bleeding." I tap her ribs, and she moans in pain. Cracked ribs. Joy. "Take off your shirt," I tell her. She does, and I get out Ace bandages, to help heal up her ribs by splinting and immobilizing them. Most physicians have moved away from that, since it increases your risk of pneumonia because you can't breathe deeply, but I'm not worried about pneumonia. I only care about fixing her up fast. I wrap up her ribs and look to see if we have an ice pack. Nope. Oh well. "Hold on," I tell her, and move back to Sayori.

I check Sayori's blood pressure. 126/88, 120-odd bpm. High-ish, but that's one of ketamine's side effects. It's why I prefer it to morphine–morphine is a depressant that lowers blood pressure and heart rate, in addition to potentially causing respiratory issues, so using it on anyone bleeding badly is a great way to kill them. Ketamine, on the other hand, actually increases blood pressure and heart rate, which is good if you're not dealing with someone who has high blood pressure. That being said, let's face it: if they need ketamine and you're treating them for battlefield trauma, high blood pressure is not a problem. Also, you do need a low amount of morphine, otherwise the doses required for proper pain management might cause bad side effects. I didn't have any morphine, though, so there's probably gonna be a few issues.

I move back to Natsuki. "Does anything else hurt?" I ask. She shakes her head. "Natsuki, I'm here to help you, okay? If anything hurts, you need to tell me."

"Nothing hurts, Mark. I'm perfectly fine," Natsuki tells me. Okay, fine. She's sure. I'm not, but I'll check her again in a few minutes. I move on to Yuri, changing gloves again–blood borne diseases aren't much fun–and peel off a bandage on her arm. Underneath are a whole lot of shallow cuts. I rewrap it with the Ace and check the other arm. Same story, same procedure. Sayori pukes behind me. Yep, ketamine's definitely working. "Hey, MC–" Monika starts to say.

"Yep, I know. Side effect. She'll be fine." I say. I turn back to Yuri, still looking, moving down lower on Yuri's body, and–

Ouch.

There's a really big cut low on her chest, like someone tried to cut her guts out. I noticed the bloodstain before, but I just thought it was just a stain gotten some other way. "Pull up your shirt a little for me," I tell her, and I get a better look. There's already a bandage, but it's soaked through with blood. I check Yuri's pulse and blood pressure quickly. Pulse 66 beats per minute, blood pressure 77/46. That's low enough to be worrying, but probably not immediately fatal. I search around and find some saline IVs, which will be perfect blood expanders. I get out the duct tape, IV tubing, and catheter (the thing that goes into your arm), plus a bandage. "Make a fist," I tell her, and she does. I find the vein and stick it. If you think nurses have it bad, hunting for veins on a patient staying still, imagine what trying to get the stick is like in the back of a truck or helicopter that's being bounced around. I set up the IV, hook the saline up to the tubing, and duct tape it to the wall of the van, because fuck it, I'm not holding it, I'm not making someone hold it, and I don't have a pole. I open the roller clamp and squeeze the bag, letting the saline flow. She's not in hypovolemic shock, so blood expanders should be fine. We'll pull over and I'll get some snacks for her. Problem solved. Kinda.

I don't know how old the bandage is, but it looks maybe a few hours old. Yuri probably hasn't had much to eat between now and when she got the cut, which is why her blood volume is still low. She needs a snack. Well, so does Natsuki, but that can wait a couple minutes. Natsuki's not a medical emergency just yet. I start to peel it away, and blood comes out. Not fast, but it's not exactly trickling. The cut is kinda deep–not deep enough to mess up intestines, but still deep–and I'm gonna have to stitch it. I grab the ketamine and a new syringe, plus the suture kit and the Ace. "Hey, Yuri?" I say. "I'm gonna have to stitch up a wound. You'll be fine, but I'm gonna give you some painkillers so it doesn't hurt to much, okay?" She nods, and I fill the syringe with the right dose, injecting it into her IV. I wait a minute, and then get out the suture kit. "Lie back," I tell Yuri. She does, and I can see Monika watching me. "Hey, Monika?" I say. "When you find a gas station, if you could hop out and get us some chips and soda, that'd be great. We could all use some."

"Okay, MC," she says. I turn back to Yuri and open up the suture kit. I peel back the bandage and start stitching, Yuri staying completely silent. After a few minutes, I'm done. I cover the sutures with the Ace. It was a nasty wound. I wonder if I killed the guy who did it, kinda idly, and decide probably not. I didn't kill that many guards. I check Yuri's blood pressure again, and it's on the way up–97/71, still lowish, but going up. Good. "You're gonna be just fine," I tell Yuri. "All done stitching." I pat her on the shoulder, and turn back to Sayori. "Hey, how're we feeling?" I ask.

"A little vomit-y," Sayori says. "Anything else?" I ask, chuckling. She shakes her head. "Okay, well, if you start feeling anything else, tell me right away, right?" I move over to Natsuki. She's clutching her forearm and clenching her teeth. And her shoulder looks dislocated. "Hey, Natsuki? Does your shoulder hurt?" She nods. "Okay," I say. "I'm gonna fix that now, okay?" I feel Monika turning, pulling into a gas station.

I grab her wrist and elbow and bend her arm 90 degrees, holding the elbow tight against her chest. I swing the arm out to the side, rotating it, finding resistance. "So," I say, as I rotate the arm a little more, "You talked about Nemesis? What's that?"

"The god of revenge," she says, as I lift her arm. "He's gonna help me get my revenge on those cultists!" As she's talking, I push the arm up, rotate it across her chest, and let go.

"All better," I say.

Natsuki looks at me. "But–but I didn't feel a thing!" she says.

"Yep," I say. "I'm all out of painkillers, and there's no point in causing more pain."

She stares. "Anyway, about Nemesis?" she says. "I made him a promise."

"Oh?"

"Yeah," she says. "I promised him I was gonna kill those motherfuckers." I'm startled. I didn't think she knew how to curse. "Are you gonna help me?" she asks.

Jesus. This is not what 16-year olds should be thinking about. They should be thinking about homework, and boys or girls they like, and their friends. They should not be thinking about killing the people that put them through hellish torture since age two. "Are you?" Natsuki asks again, more urgently this time.

"I'll help you!" Sayori chimes in, sounding cheerful. "They deserve to hurt."

"Y-yes," stutters Yuri. "They do."

I blink hard. What the hell? This is not a normal conversation. "Yuri, Sayori, you're both looped out on painkillers." They absolutely are. Ketamine's effects last for up to 25 minutes. It's been about 15 since I injected Sayori and about 10 since I gave Yuri her dose. But that doesn't mean they're not thinking clearly. Dissociating, maybe, but probably thinking just fine.

"I still want to hurt them," Sayori says, just in time for Monika to swing open the door and hear.

"Hurt who?" she asks, confused.

I sigh and turn. "Give me a second, would you?" I ask the girls, then hop out and shut the door. "They're talking about killing cultists," I tell Monika. "They want revenge."

Monika looks down. "Yeah."

"Well?" I ask. "What do we do about it? I-what do you want me to do?"

Monika is silent for a second. Then: "Help them get it."

"What?" I ask. "How?"

"Well," she starts, "Teach them–"

"Monika," I say, "I'm not in the child soldier business. So forget it."

"Oh?" she says. "So what do we do instead? Because you committed ten or twenty murders, and some domestic terrorism, and there's no way the cult isn't calling this a kidnapping. So we're fugitives right now. I say we help them get their revenge."

"Fine," I say. "I'll teach them to fight. Happy?"

"No!" Monika exclaims. I quickly glance around. Nobody's looking. "Keep your voice down," I plead.

She keeps going like I didn't say anything. "You're teaching me too. Or did you forget where I came from?" Monika is not going to let go, I realize.

"Okay, fine. I'll teach you all. Now can we please go home? Sun's up, and we've been awake for more than a day," I tell her. It's true. I can see the sunrise breaking through the trees on a nearby hill.

"Fine," she says, still grumpy. I walk around to the back, and she hops in the front, and drives away. As we go, we pass a black SUV that screams _I AM A FED._

 _Yeah, she wasn't kidding about that_ , I think as we speed to the warehouse we call home. As we do, I pull out a small notebook, and start writing down a laundry list of things I'll want to teach them, and what I'll need to do it. I wonder what the G-man was thinking, then turn my attention back to the task at hand.

* * *

The G-man's name is Matthew Drew. He's the special agent in charge, or SAC, of the Pittsburgh field office. It's responsible for West Virginia. However, it's in Pennsylvania, which is why he's been driving for an hour with his assistant SAC, or ASAC, because the government loves acronyms. That's not why he's driving, though. That's because the office is Pennsylvania. It's also not why he's pissed off. That would be because he was rudely woken up at zero-dark-stupid, which in this case was 04:00, by a call from the local police. So now, two hours later, he has to get down to some camp run by some religious nut jobs that got blown up by some people who are also probably religious nut jobs.

"Wally, remind me again why we're doing this?" he asks. "Why can't we send out some other guys to do it for us? Then we wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit."

His ASAC, Wally Chambers, sighs. "Because we're senior, and our presence has been demanded by the Assistant Director who's in charge of counterterror. So off we go, to deal with what will doubtlessly be an Everest-sized pile of bullshit, wrapped in millions of miles of red tape."

"Thanks, Wally," he says, dryly. "Now let's just get this over with."

Agent Drew is not a very happy person. He's also not prepared to see what he's going to see when he arrives at the compound, in two more hours. He sighs. _This fucking sucks,_ he thinks to himself. He checks his watch and groans. He's got a long way to go, and he already hates every inch.


	3. Discovery

_Okay, guys, this is a_ _FBI-heavy chapter. I felt the need to establish the investigation really well, so that it doesn't just feel like some worthless waste of words and filler. Trust me, there are good reasons why I'm doing this. The non-spoilery version is basically that the FBI is going to start a low-and-slow investigation into the cult, which, well, has consequences. **Grave** consequences! **Mwahahaha** hackcoughcoughcough._

 _I'm okay._

 _Also, Amy shows up! You know, the girl who likes spiders? Yeah, she's a college student who wants to research them later in life, and not a test subject. For now._

 _Yeah, no, Amy won't get kidnapped. **Or will she?**_

 _She won't. Chill._

 _Technical terms! SOP is standard operating procedure, which is basically what it sounds like. EKIA stands for Enemy Killed In Action. The SEAL radio callsigns are simple: your team, and then your place in that team's chain of command. For example, the fourth in charge from Romeo team would be Romeo Four. I don't know if it actually works that way–radio procedure is one of the few things that SEALs haven't written about–so if anyone does know and it's not classified, let me know and I'll fix it. Klick is militarese for kilometer._

 _An ODA, also called an A-Team or Operational Detachment Alpha, is a group of twelve Special Forces operators. Each ODA has a specialty or focus–for example, one ODA might have a maritime focus, and be qualified combat divers. Another ODA might focus on mountain warfare, and be very good at mountaineering skills, like rappelling. Or maybe an ODA is tasked with arctic warfare, so you get guys who are all expert skiers. ODAs are referred to by a four-digit number, indicating first which SF group they belong to, then the battalion in the group, then the company, and then the last number identifies the team. For example, the second ODA from the third company of the first battalion of the 7th Special Forces Group would be ODA 7132._

 _ODAs are composed pretty simply. In charge is a Captain, and his second-in-command is a warrant officer. The enlisted guys consist of the Operations Sergeant, who plans the missions; an Assistant Operations/Intelligence Sergeant, who helps the locals that the ODA's partnered with to collect and process intelligence; two Weapons Sergeants, who are fully qualified experts with all forms of small-arms and some light artillery, like mortars; two Engineer Sergeants, who do demolitions and help construct permanent camp facilities; two Medical Sergeants, who act as combat medics and doctors; and two Communications Sergeants, who run the radios. A split ODA consists of either the captain or warrant officer, the Operations or Intelligence sergeant, and one of each other specialty._

 _CIF companies are explained in the story, but I'm gonna go over them here anyway. Every Special Forces Group (There are seven: the 1st, 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 10th in the regular Army, and the 19th and 20th in the National Guard) has a CIF (Commander's In-Extremis Force) Company. CIF companies are tasked to what are called Unified Combatant Commands (UCCs), which are basically just areas of operations. For example, AFRICOM is the UCC for Africa, and the guy in charge is in command of all US forces in Africa. For example, the 10th Special Forces Group's CIF company, C/1/10 (C Company [Co]., 1st Battalion [Bn.], 10th Special Forces Group), is tasked to AFRICOM. CIF companies act as a localized team that can conduct counterterrorism operations in the area. Basically, CIF companies are the guys who handle the stuff that Delta Force or SEAL Team Six either can't get to fast enough or that isn't considered high-priority enough for them. Now, I don't know which company is the 5th Group's CIF company, so I picked two numbers at random and came up with B/2/5. If anyone knows what it actually is, that would be great info to have._

 _And while yes, I'm a kinda-sorta co-author with Twixster, I'm not sure how canon this stuff is, but I'll keep writing anyway._

 _Sorry this chapter is coming out late. I was planning to get it out on the 25th, but then I broke my nose and a bunch of other stuff happened, so yeah._

 _Also, I would really appreciate reviews of any kind. This is my first writing project like, well, this, and any sort of feedback helping me improve would be much appreciated._

* * *

Special Agent Matthew Drew is pissed as he moves the car up the road. He's pissed at how the stupid-ass counterterror department decided he needed to be there at six in the morning. He's pissed at how the local cops have no fucking clue what they're doing. He's even more pissed that he's being held up by one of those cops, because that cop decided an SUV with plates clearly marking it as an FBI vehicle _clearly_ can't belong to the FBI agents that are supposed to come at about exactly the time that he showed up.

"No, officer, I'm–you know what? Get me whoever's in charge, dammit," he says. _These locals really are hicks,_ he thinks. "Maybe he understands logic."

The officer looks exasperated. Agent Drew's been yelling at him for five minutes, and it looks like he's had enough. "Fine," he says, then stalks back to his patrol car to make a radio call. He starts exasperated, then suddenly stops. Almost like someone just tore him a new one for his stupidity. He walks back sheepishly.

"Okay, you're the FBI. Roll on through, the ME's waiting for you." _No doubt the medical examiner will be just as stupid,_ Agent Drew thinks, angry. He takes the SUV up the road some more, shaking his head in exasperation. He climbs out of the vehicle and walks up the road. A man in a tailored pinstripe suit and a lab coat are waiting for him, in addition to a man in normal clothes who looks like the ME, a CSI tech, and a police officer. "Well," he says. "I'm Matthew Drew, the Special-Agent-in-Charge of the Pittsburgh field office. This is Wally Chambers, my deputy." Wally nods. "You wanna catch us up before we take over?"

Lab coat speaks first. "I'm Doctor Graham Libitina, the head doctor." Libitina seems–well, off, to Agent Drew's practiced senses. And they're practiced–before he was even a supervisor, he was on the DC regional FBI SWAT team, where he was injured and then plopped behind a desk. Drew has high sensitivity to crazy guys, and Libitina is off the damn charts. Agent Drew extends his hand, and shakes Libitina's.

"Steven Harriet," Pinstripes says. Drew knows this guy. Not personally, but he's heard of him. Gray crew cut, teeth so white you can send signals into space with them, he looks exactly like a cult leader should. He extends his hand, and Agent Drew shakes it. "This attack on us is sickening. Some of the bodies–mutilated is the only way to describe it."

"Uh, yeah, he's not kidding," the ME says. "Oh! Right. I'm Charlie Richter, the ME. Sorry! Forgot to introduce myself. But, yeah, it's bad."

"How do you mean?" Wally asks.

"Well, come see for yourself," Richter says, and Agent Drew, Wally, Richter, and the CSI tech walk over to a guard box. There's a body covered by a sheet. "I haven't had the time to get them to the morgue, and the crime scene photographers aren't quite done taking pictures, so we're doing this right here." Richter chuckles nervously. "Anyway, well, take a look." He removes the sheet.

It's really not pretty.

The dead guard's throat has been– _his neck's almost cut off,_ Agent Drew thinks. "Yeah, I know," Richter says. "The throat. Quick kill, if a bit noisy, it's just been slit all the way open. But look at this." He raises the corpse's arm, and Agent Drew can see bone exposed at the wrist. "One of the attackers sliced the wrist and hacked the throat open."

"One of?" Agent Drew asks. "You think there's more than one killer?"

"Agent," Richter says, "They left fifteen bodies behind. One person can't do that. Right?"

"No," Wally says. "One person can't do that."

Agent Drew sighs. "Do we know anything else?"

"Yeah, actually," the CSI tech says. "Kevin Hearst, I do ballistics. The shooters used MP7 submachine guns."

Wally raises an eyebrow. "How can you tell?"

"Because," Hearst says, "It's the only gun to use the 4.6-by-30 millimeter round. It's entirely proprietary. And guess what? We found plenty of shell casings from MP7s. Forty or so. And as far as we can tell, there were no misses."

"Jesus," Agent Drew says. "These were some real professional guys."

"Yeah," Hearst says. "I wouldn't want to meet one of them in a dark alley, that's for sure."

"We have a suspect list?" Wally says.

"No," says Hearst. "Nothing."

"The cameras didn't see anything?" Agent Drew asks.

"No," Hearst says. "Someone bashed the hell out of the recorders."

"Also," Richter chimes in, "There's a pattern here. Lots of excessive force. That guy I showed you? No reason to hit both the wrist and the throat. Either would have killed him, but our attackers did both. And we know they had quiet enough guns that they didn't have to slash up the guy, because nobody reported hearing gunfire. Whoever these guys were, they were angry, and very well motivated by something. What the hell could that be?"

Agent Drew looks at Richter. "Yeah," he says. "We should run down motive. This was not a small undertaking."

"Right," Wally says. "How many people do you think there were? One driver for sure, right?"

"Maybe not," Agent Drew says. "Could just be that the driver also was one of the members of the assault team."

"Keep it small, right? So in that case, there'd be maybe four or five guys. That means we're looking for four or five really pissed off spec-ops guys." Insightful as always, Wally.

"Maybe more," Kevin chimes in. "Three of the guards got whacked by sniper fire. We should get some guys out to look for hide sites, see what we can get."

"Good thinking, Mr. Hearst," Agent Drew says. Harriet walks over, and looks at the guard's corpse. He goes very pale.

"You okay, Mr. Harriet?" Wally asks.

"I'm fine," Harriet says. Well, it's not every day you see someone's neck cut open.

"Well, these guys left one hell of a body count, boss," Wally says. "Fifteen dead, plus a lot of stuff blown up."

"Agent Drew?" Harriet asks. "I don't believe that the missing doctor was mentioned in that tally? Or the three girls?"

Agent Drew turns. "Sorry, what?" he asks.

"There's a doctor missing, and three of our children with him."

Agent Drew is suddenly not pissed off. This is a kidnapping. A child kidnapping. _Holy shit,_ he thinks. _This is bad._

"What are their names?" he asks.

* * *

"Staff Sergeant Mark Connors," Agent Drew says, briefing his task force in a hotel conference room. He pulls up a picture. A brown-haired, brown-eyed, clean-shaven, average-looking unsmiling man looks back at the FBI agents, wearing a military dress uniform. "Eight years working for Uncle Sam in the Army, one year as a paratrooper combat medic with the 82nd, three as a sniper-slash-medic with the 75th Ranger Regiment, and the last four as the same with the 5th Special Forces Group."

"That's right," Agent Drew continues, "this guy was part of a no-shit, for-real A-Team. And not just any A-Team, but a military freefall team. Now, all Green Berets and Rangers are parachute-qualified, but that's static-line stuff, where your parachute is opened for you. But that wasn't enough for this guy. No, this crazy bastard jumped out of planes at anywhere from ten to thirty-five _thousand_ feet and then opened his chute at death-defyingly low altitudes, some as low as two thousand feet. At that altitude, if his parachute failed, he'd have a grand total of ten seconds before pancaking in." The assembled agents murmur, and Wally takes over.

"Oh, and after falling out of that plane, his job was to start up a behind-the-lines insurgency and train the locals in all sorts of nasty stuff. That means he was considered good enough by the Army to teach it, so he knows it well. If you think his file ends there, think again. He spent a year attached to the CIA doing god knows what. All we know about that is that took place in the Pakistani tribal areas around 2013 or 2014. Probably assassinations, torture, nasty stuff like that. We're trying to get the CIA to grant us a read-on, but they're still deliberating. After he became a Green Beret, he spent the last nine months of his career as part of a CIF company. You know how every FBI field office has its own SWAT team that handles things HRT can't get to fast enough or isn't necessarily high-priority enough? They're like that, except with Delta Force instead of HRT. And Connors was a stand-out member, from what we're reading."

"Anyway," Agent Drew says, "he retired a year ago, then moved here three weeks later and got a job as an EMT. Two months after that, he got hired by the cult. And eleven months later, he blew the place up. Which reminds me–Agent Collins, where are we on the explosives?"

"Well, it's C4 for sure," Agent Collins says. "I'm trying to run down where it came from. No leads so far."

"Thanks, Agent," Wally says. Collins nods, and Wally resumes the briefing. "Sergeant Connors neglected to mention his full medical and military background when he applied to be a cult doctor. That's very interesting. Especially because he came into frequent contact with the three missing girls." Three pictures appear onscreen. "Natsuki Allen, Yuri Libitina, and Sayori Erhler. Now, we have no idea if he's one of the suspects we're looking for. At the very least, we know Connors is missing, along with the kids, and his personal vehicle was found in the parking lot, which tells me that either he was being very sneaky, or whoever kidnapped these girls took him, too. Moving on from Connors, we're trying to look at the resident former spec-ops population, see who might have had the means, opportunity, and motive. Agent Capiletti, your team will run that down." Capiletti nods. "We're also looking into the shell casings from the MP7s. It's proprietary ammo with not a lot of buyers. Eventually, we'll find where it came from and who gave it to the kidnappers. Agent McMahon, that's your guys."

Agent Drew steps back in. "All right, people, we know what we're all doing, right? So let's get to it. Come on, let's go!" They disperse. Agent Drew steps outside, and opens his contacts, finding Amy and calling her.

"Dad?" Amy asks.

"Hey, honey," Matthew says. "I've got a pretty bad case down here. I might not be home for a little bit."

"Is it the kidnapping in West Virginia?" Amy asks. Matthew smiles. Amy's so smart, and he's so proud. She's going to be a scientist, research spiders. Matthew thinks it's great that his daughter is enjoying science. He never did. He was a math guy. Matthew thinks her spider research is–well, odd, but she likes it and it hasn't killed him yet, so he's fine with it.

"Yep," he says. "How'd you know?"

"You're on the news," she says. "Some cult guy just went on TV and said your name. When do you think you'll be back?"

Matthew sighs. God _damn_ it, Harriet. "Hard to say," he says. "Could be a few days from now, could be a week or two."

Amy sighs back. "I wish they'd give you some time frame, Dad."

"So do I," Matthew says. He sees Wally wave him over. "I gotta go, pumpkin. Talk to you soon."

"Bye," Amy says, and Agent Drew sighs. Today is gonna be a long day.

* * *

Monika takes the van all the way up the driveway as I finish writing out the list of demands. What's on the list is enough to train the girls to fight in a week, and then sustain us for another week. Everything else is gonna have to be on-site procurement, which is SOP for guerrilla warfare. There's also another list of assets. We've got two 9x19mm handguns and 114 rounds, one 5.56x45mm semi-auto carbine and 120 rounds, one semi-auto 7.62x51mm sniper rifle and 96 rounds, and one select-fire suppressed submachine gun and 492 rounds. We have a whole bunch of tourniquets, Ace, pressure dressings, splints, burn ointment, painkillers, IV equipment, a few field blood tests, and a surgical kit. We also have two unbroken hard armor plates that'll stop 7.62mm AK rounds and a helmet. We have one pair of NVGs and one pair of night-vision binoculars—I checked out the gear bag's pockets and found those, plus a night-vision optic for a sniperscope. Plus all the camouflage clothes and facepaint kit.

It's not really enough guns—I'm the only sniper, and I'm also the only one I trust with a full-auto weapon, so I only have three guns for the others, only one of which will be much use in a firefight—but it's enough medical gear, and probably enough body armor and night vision. If one of us gets hit really bad, that's it. Anything that doesn't badly fuck up a major blood vessel or vital organ, I can fix, but we'll be down one fighter for a while, maybe forever if I have to get them to a hospital. More minor injuries, I can deal with. Minor being relative: I'm good if I have to patch up light gunshot wounds, but missing legs and arterial bleeds aren't exactly field-reparable.

Monika opens the van doors. "Okay, everyone!" she says. "We're here!" The girls amble out excitedly, and I hop out of the van, bags on my shoulders. We walk them into the building, and I do the locks up, plus some extra chains. Take no chances. I turn and walk further inside, then start unloading the bags. "What are you doing?" Monika asks. I hand her the list.

"You still committed to helping them get revenge?" I ask.

"Yes," she says.

"Go buy everything on that list, then," I say. She reads through it, nodding along, seeing normal stuff like clothing, and then her expression changes to something more grim, and then confusion.

"Styrofoam?" she asks. "Huh?"

"For making Napalm," I say. Because if shooting it didn't work, setting it on fire is a good fallback plan.

"And the wine?"

"Molotov cocktails."

"And the gasoline—Napalm, right?"

I nod. "Also Molotov cocktails, but yes."

"What on earth could you possibly need aluminum powder for?"

"Thermite."

"What?"

"Incendiary mixture that burns at over four thousand degrees."

"And lead monoxide?"

"To make picric acid. It's an explosive."

She kept reading, and sighed. "Okay, but can I rest first?" She was tired. So was I, but rest could wait.

"Yeah," I said. "I'll make the girls some soup, and then we'll get some sleep. Okay?"

"Okay," she sighed.

"One more thing," I said.

"What?" she asked.

"Why'd you kiss me?" Might as well get that conversation over with.

She blushed and looked at the ground. "I don't know," she said. "Everything was just happening so fast and—it just felt, I don't know, right."

"Oh," I say. That answer was super clear. I can totally understand why she kissed me.

That was sarcasm.

"B-because if you didn't like—" Monika stumbles over her words. God, she's so cute when she does that.

"No," I say, smiling. "I liked it."

"Oh," she says.

"Hey, Mark?" I hear Natsuki call. "Are we gonna eat?"

"Yeah!" I call back. "Just wait a sec." I turn back to Monika.

"You should probably start cooking," she says. I nod and walk to the oven. She walks back to her car, and drives away.

"Okay!" I say. "Who wants to help cook?" Natsuki hops up and walks over. I get out a pan, a bowl, and some eggs. "Okay, 'Suki, we're gonna make some scrambled eggs. So what I need you to do is crack open the eggs and dump them into this bowl. But don't get any shell in there, okay?" She nods. "Great. Let's go." After this, me and Monika are going to start on the second part of our plan.

We're gonna call the FBI.

* * *

"There's a guy called into the tip line," Wally says. "He'll only speak to you."

"Is he legit?" Agent Drew asks. If he's gonna have to deal with movie bullshit, it might as well be useful.

"Looks like it," Wally says. "He identified the shell casings correctly as being from an MP7. He also added that he has intimate knowledge of who's who in the kidnapping gang."

"Okay," Agent Drew says. "Put him through to me." Wally sends a text, and his phone buzzes after a few seconds, and he picks up.

"Agent Drew?" a voice asks.

"You the caller who'll only speak to me?" Agent Drew replies.

"Yes, I am," the voice says. "Have you looked inside the hospital?" It has some accent he can't place.

"No. There's no reason. Nothing happened there." Agent Drew says. Great. Another wiseass telling him how to do his job.

"What do you mean, Agent? There wasn't a rope hanging off the roof? No smashed-in second-floor window?"

"No," Agent Drew says. "You're full of it. There's no reason to look at the hospital."

"I'd check it out," the voice says. "First and second floors. Be real interesting."

"Stop jerking me around. Fifteen people are dead!" Agent Drew shouts.

"Fifteen?" the voice asks. "No, I l–there are thirty-six dead."

Agent Drew is puzzled. "What do you mean?"

The voice laughs. "That Harriet bastard didn't tell you how many of his guys were dead? Figures."

Agent Drew wishes he was dealing with something even simpler. First, it's domestic terrorism with a bit of hate crime mixed in. Then, it's a kidnapping by force. Now, he can't even get an accurate body count? _What the hell is happening here?_ he thinks.

"How do I know I can trust you?" Agent Drew asks, trying to verify this information. If it's true, things are a lot more complicated than he thought.

"Well," the voice says. "I blew up six targets: a guard tower, an armory, a propane tank, an aviation fuel tank, a helicopter, and a door. But you've only seen five, because the sixth, the door, was in the hospital."

The information checks out–that's pretty much what Harriet claimed, except for the door. "Okay," Agent Drew says. "We'll check it out. But that doesn't excuse the fact that people have been kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?" the voice asks, incredulous. "Rescued, more like."

"Rescued?!" Agent Drew shouts. "Rescued?! Those killers _rescued_ Sayori Erhler?! They _rescued_ Natsuki Allen?! They _rescued_ Yuri Libitina?! Did they rescue Mark Connors, too?!"

The voice goes silent, and Agent Drew does a mental victory lap. Then it comes back. "Did you say Yuri Libitina?" it asks.

"Yes!" Agent Drew shouts. The line dies instantly.

Agent Drew swears something unprintable and very definitively impolite. Wally looks over, concerned. "He said there were thirty-six bodies, not fifteen," Agent Drew says. He remembers something else. "He also said that _he_ blew up six targets, one of which was a door inside Wing A, and the other five he told me matched exactly. He meant him specifically. Wally, I think that was one of them. I think one of the kidnappers just called us."

"Why?" Wally asks. "Matt, why the hell would anyone do that? Especially if we're hunting them?"

"I–I don't know," Agent Drew says. Then he remembers something else. "Wait. He said that they rescued the girls. But then he got really interested when I said that Libitina's daughter was kidnapped."

"So?" Wally asks.

"So maybe these guys are trying to hurt the cult with more than a bombing, and I just told them they has a senior cult official's daughter." Agent Drew swears again. "We gotta find them fast, Wally."

"Just do everything we're doing now, right?" Wally says.

Agent Drew sighs. "We should also check the hospital," he says. "Just to be safe."

"Agent Drew?" a different voice asks.

"Yes, that's me," he says, turning around.

"Sign here," the guy says. Agent Drew does, and he's handed a flash drive. "That's the read-on," the guy says. "Don't lose it."

Agent Drew does, and the guy leaves. "So," Wally says. "Let's go see what's on it."

* * *

"Jesus," Agent Drew says. "This isn't exactly informative."

"Nope," Wally agrees. "It most certainly is not."

Connors' CIA file, while still covering a good amount of content, has plenty of black ink. Most of it is spent on dates and locations, but some of it covers up people who have to be senior staff at Langley. Each date and location that hasn't been completely redacted has an after-action report, which are similarly blacked-out. It's all worthless. Agent Drew tosses a print-out aside. "I can't get anything from this. It's all just–honestly, what is with all this secret squirrel shit?" He's exasperated. "I mean, fuck's sake, Wally, what idiot thought this was worth a damn?"

Wally sighs. "No clue, Matt. Let's just see what we can get."

Agent Drew sighs and looks through the printed files some more. "Got a name. Andrew Harris."

"Don't know it," Wally replies. "I'll put it on the list of things to look into." He keeps reading his file. "A date. 14 December 2013. And I think it's paired with another name. Joseph...Savone? Hell is that?"

Agent Drew looks up, shocked. "Joseph Savone?! The operations director for Red Sparrow? I just had a meeting with him a week ago! We were discussing some tactical training for the regional SWAT team. He's in Connors' file?"

"Apparently," Wally says. "And that means we have Connors' means, if he's our guy. Savone could have gotten him all of that hardware. All of it."

"Jesus," Agent Drew says. His phone buzzes, and he answers. "Agent Drew here."

"Sir, this is Agent Gomez. We just checked the hospital, and, well, you should get down here and take a look. It's–it's bad."

"Now, Agent?" Agent Drew would much prefer to chase Savone down and find out just what the hell he had to do with this. But if the hospital demanded his attention, he had to go.

"Yeah," Agent Gomez says. "Now is ideal, sir. I don't think I can adequately describe it over the phone."

"Okay, Agent," Agent Drew says. "On my way." He turns to Wally. "Looks like we found something at the hospital. I'm gonna head over, you stay here and keep digging. Okay?"

"You got it, boss," Wally says. Agent Drew nods and leaves, wondering just what the hell was so indescribable and important for him to make the trip.

* * *

I check my watch. It's 17:03. Monika left at about 07:30, so she should either be getting the last of the stuff on the List of Lethality or heading back already. I think about what Agent Drew said, about Yuri being Dr. L's daughter. Maybe he was fucking with me, but I don't think so. He sounded like he was pissed off and not watching his words. Agent Drew must be telling the truth. Yuri's sleeping right now, looking so peaceful and–and innocent, I guess. Might as well wake her up, see what she knows. I silently pad closer to her, the unsound of cloth on concrete barely reaching my ears. I reach down and shake her shoulder gently. She stirs. "Wake up," I whisper. She slides up off the couch.

"Y-yes?" She's nervous. Put her at ease.

"Look, Yuri, I just need to ask you a few questions outside, okay? Don't worry. Everything's gonna be just fine." She nods, and we walk outside. I lean against the wall of the warehouse and she sits on a stump, back straight, one of the many habits beaten in to her by people not fit to lick her boots. "Yuri, do you know who your parents are?" I ask. She looks at me. "Yuri, I need to know, okay? Do you know who they are?"

"N-no," she stutters. It's not at all convincing.

"Yuri, come on," I say. "You're the worst liar I've seen." There's a hint of annoyance in my voice. She flinches, and starts to raise her hands to block a baton, a fist, a boot, anything that might have been used to hurt her, and I mentally kick myself. Damn it, Mark, you're smarter than this. "Hey, hey, calm down. Not gonna hurt you. Just tell me who your parents are."

"Mother is a nurse," she says. "F-father is one of the doctors. Please, please don't hurt me."

"Yuri, I'm not going to hurt you at all, okay? But I do need to know who your parents are. What's the last name?"

"Libitina," she says.

That _motherfucker._ His own daughter. His own fucking daughter. Is there nothing that worthless bastard won't do? Yeah, Dr. L's gonna die. Not with a bullet to the head. Maybe I'll break out the napalm for that. He deserves it. Yuri cowers, and I realize I probably look pretty angry right now. I wipe the expression off my face and smile at her. "Okay," I say. "How about we go inside and get some more sleep, yeah?" She nods, and we go back inside. She lies down on the couch, and I tuck a blanket over her, pat her head, and walk back to the table, where I've been cleaning the AR-15. I reassemble it, smack in a loaded thirty-round magazine, and rack the charging handle. I want a rifle ready just in case the cult comes knocking.

I hear a car come up the road, and quickly advance to the metal door, opening it and taking cover against the wall. I look out, and see Monika. I sling the rifle and walk out. She parks the car and hops out. "God, MC, this was expensive," she says. Well, all that ammo–almost ten thousand rounds– the clothes, and the assorted items aren't cheap individually, so they definitely wouldn't be cheap all together.

"Wars always are," I say. She nods slowly. "Anyway," I say. "We're all getting up at oh-four-hundred sharp to learn to fight. I'll teach you shooting fundamentals and how to use the guns we have."

"W-wait a minute!" Monika exclaims. "Four in the morning?!"

"Only so much time in the day," I say. "We're gonna use as much as possible."

Monika sighs. "Okay. Now can you help me unpack?"

I nod and move to the trunk, grabbing out the boxes of ammunition and the bags of clothing. Gotta make sure we have everything, and then me and Monika need to talk about our next moves. I wonder if Agent Drew's actually gonna check the hospital. I decide to call him when I'm done unloading.

* * *

Agent Drew hops out of the car and walks to the hospital. Agent Gomez is waiting for him. "Sir, it's incredible what we've found. Come on in, take a look," Agent Gomez says. Agent Drew nods and walks inside. "This way, sir," Agent Gomez says. He leads Agent Drew down a hallway. "Look at this." He points at a massive hole in a wall. Agent Drew looks.

"Okay, there's a blown-up wall. So?" he asks.

"Well, sir, there's also a blast mark from a fragmentation grenade down there–" Agent Gomez points–"and look in that hole." Agent Drew does. There's nothing there. A room with a window that has a grate over it.

"So?" he asks.

"So," Agent Gomez says, infinitely patient, "That room looks an awful lot like a cell to me. And we found blood in there. Old blood. Lots of it, too. And that hole used to be a doorway. With the kind of door you use on solitary confinement cells. Something very nasty is happening here."

 _"Rescued, more like."_ The voice over the phone. Agent Drew realizes that maybe it was telling the truth. "Did you check the other floors?" Agent Drew asks. Gomez shakes his head.

"Not yet."

"Well, go do it," Agent Drew says, and Gomez is in motion. Agent Drew's phone rings. He picks up.

"Matt, that caller's back."

"Put him through, Wally."

The phone goes silent, and then the voice comes on. "Searching the hospital?" it asks.

"Yes," Agent Drew says.

"Starting to believe me?" This guy does not let up.

"Yes," Agent Drew says.

"What are you gonna do about it?" The voice sounds anxious now. Worried. "What's the new plan, Agent Drew?"

Agent Drew sighs. "I don't know," he admits. But there will be something. That's for sure.

"Make one," the voice says. The line goes dead. Agent Drew sighs. Well, great. That wasn't informative. All the guy did was gloat. Well, in Agent Drew's reckoning, he was kinda entitled to it.

"Hey, sir?" Gomez says after a few minutes. "We found a surgery upstairs, along with more bullet holes and blood. Sir, if you don't mind me asking, how did you know to look here?"

"Anonymous tip," Agent Drew says.

"Right," Gomez says. "Well, it was a good one. Anyway, how do you wanna play this? Cult doesn't know we're here, and the warrant covers the whole camp."

Agent Drew thinks. "Keep it quiet, but sweep for evidence."

"Sir!" There's an agent out of breath. "We found something in Connors' office. It's his journal."

"Have you read it?" Gomez asks.

"No," the agent says.

"Well, let's do that, shall we?" Agent Drew says.

* * *

"It's confirmed, Wally," Agent Drew says, driving back to the Pennsylvania field office. "Connors is our guy."

"How?" Wally asks. "How did you do that?"

"He left a few pages from his journal," Agent Drew says. "It suggests Savone's involved, and something weirder."

"What?" Wally asks.

"Aside from a friend of Connors', Monika Palmer, he acted alone," Agent Drew says.

"Oh, bullshit!" Wally exclaims. "One-man assaults are for the movies! So what if this guy was from what's basically Delta Force Lite? That doesn't make him Jason Bourne!"

"According to the journal, apparently it did."

"Christ," Wally says. "Well, we should interview Savone now."

"Yeah. I'll set that up," Agent Drew says. "Wally, the things he claimed–he said the cult was carrying out human experimentation and torture. And we've got the evidence to back it up."

"So?" Wally asks. "Matt, if we have evidence, why aren't we taking them down now?"

Agent Drew sighs. "I did some digging. Monika Palmer–Connors' friend? She made the exact same claims in an interview to the FBI, who got a warrant and evidence–and then nothing happened."

"What?" Wally's confusion is evident in his voice. "I don't follow."

"For whatever reason, no prosecution ever took place." Agent Drew's angry. "I don't even know why."

"You think someone buried it?" Wally asks. "Why would anyone do that?"

"Bribes," Agent Drew says. "I mean, we're not immune to corruption, and the cult has money."

"Okay," Wally says. "Makes sense. So we're doing a bribery investigation on top of a domestic terror investigation on top of a human experimentation investigation. Fun."

Agent Drew chuckles. "Yep. But focus on the human experimentation. Put Connors on the back burner for now, at least unofficially. You and three guys you trust absolutely–and I mean absolutely, Wally, this information cannot get out–will focus on investigating the cult. Okay?"

"Sounds like a plan, Matt," Wally says, and hangs up. He sighs. Then he calls Amy. It's not that late–only nine at night–and she should still be up. She picks up on the third ring.

"Hey, Dad." There's voices and music in the background.

"Hey, Amy," Matthew says. "Just wanted to let you know that I'll have some time away on Friday, so if you wanted to get lunch or something then, I've got the whole day."

"Okay, Dad," she says. There's a voice, some guy, and she says "Hold on." He can hear her giggling.

"Amy, are you drunk?" he asks. "Amy?"

"No, Mister Special Agent," she says, with an extra sh-sound, free of charge. She's lying, and only nineteen.

"Amy, come on. You're a terrible liar. Get a ride home and don't go back there." Unbelievable.

"Dad, I'm not in danger or anything. God, you're being overprotective again!" She shouts. "Don't I get freedom? I'm an adult!"

"You're my _daughter,_ " Agent Drew says, forcefully. "And you're drinking while underage. Come _on_ , Amy, you're smarter than this."

"Am I? Am I really?" she asks, angrily. "Because I was stupid enough to stand by while you and Mom just fell apart! You know, you have no right! You're the reahon–she left us because of you!"

Agent Drew snaps back, shocked, furious. "You know what, Amy?" he asks. "Forget it. Destroy your life. Do it, go ahead. You're an _adult._ You get _freedom._ I clearly have no _right_ to care about my daughter, don't I? I'm _just so overprotective_ , trying to keep my daughter from ending up in _jail._ Go ahead. Burn it all down." He hangs up and angrily chucks the phone into the backseat. How _dare_ she. _She's_ wrong here. Amy's drinking, probably doing all sorts of terrible things–

Headlights flash by, close, and Agent Drew swerves the car back onto the road. He swears, then sighs. He pulls over to the side of the road, fishes the phone out of the backseat, takes a minute to pull himself together, and calls Savone. Fuck it, might as well get this over with. "Agent Drew!" Savone says. "How can I help you?"

"Well, Joe," Agent Drew says, "I was wondering if you might be able to help me out. I'm looking into the bombing, and I was wondering if you'd mind an interview, so I can try and run some stuff down."

"Okay, Agent," Savone says. "Let me see...I actually have the whole night open."

"How about my office, at–" Agent Drew checks his watch– "Nine? Does that work?"

"Perfectly," Savone says. "Where do you want to have the interview?"

"Just come to my office," Agent Drew says. "We'll take it from there."

"A'ight, Agent," Savone says. "See you then and there."

Agent Drew hangs up. Wally calls again. "Hey, Matt?" he says. "We did some digging, and found out Palmer's name before she went to live with the foster family. You're not gonna believe it."

"Oh?" Agent Drew says.

"It was Harriet," Wally says. Agent Drew blinks twice hard. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is "W-w–wha-I–huh?" Hardly an award-winning one-liner.

"Yeah," Wally says. "My reaction too."

"Wally, what the fuck?" Agent Drew asks. "Palmer's Harriet's kid? So that means–I don't–what?" _What a fucking rabbit hole. It hasn't even been a whole twenty-four hours, and everything's already so incredibly complicated. Connors is rescuing kids from an abusive cult and he was mixed up with this CIA hit squad and the friend who got him in to this is the daughter of the guy who runs the cult he hit. Jesus._

"Anyway," Agent Drew says. "I'm gonna interview Savone in an hour and a half at my office. You wanna be there?"

"Sure," Wally says. "Why not? Let's see what Savone tells us. Maybe he'll talk about that CIA hit squad, we'll figure out what's up with that."

"Yeah," Agent Drew says. "Keep me posted on your end. Got those three yet?"

"Not quite," Wally replies. "I have two, still trying to decide on the third. Shouldn't take long."

"Alright, Wally," Agent Drew says. "'See you then."

"Good night, Matt," Wally says, and hangs up. Matthew leans back and keeps driving. He'll interview Savone, crash at the hotel, then wake up and get back to work on Connors. "You know," he says, to nobody at all, "I'd kill to know what this guy's thinking about right now."

* * *

"Okay, Monika," I say. We've unpacked everything–all the ammo, targets, mannequins, and various explosives or explosive components. "Now we need to talk about some new information."

"What?" she asks. "What do you mean?"

"Well," I answer, "I talked to Agent Drew, like we discussed, and he let slip that Yuri's last name is Libitina."

"Oh," she says. Monika knows about Dr. L. She knows what that means. "Oh my god. I–" She's getting that familiar look in her eyes. The one where she panics and withdraws. The one where she shuts herself in, curled up in a ball on the floor. But it ends differently this time. She shakes it off. "So what do we do?"

"That's up to you," I say. Then I stop and think. "Actually, we need to figure out if it is."

"MC, what do you mean?"

"Well, which of us is gonna be in charge when we go and fight?" I ask. "Am I the tactical-level commander and you set strategic goals? Do I do both? Neither? We need to work out a chain of command."

"Okay," she says. "I mean, I didn't really think about that. I guess you should do both, because I don't know what I'm doing."

"Fine. Also, I'm gonna have to train people to be able to do special tasks. I can't do all the medicine and demolitions and communications and whatnot." I'm planning on building something like a split A-team, which has a medic, combat engineer, weapons man, radioman, intel/ops guy, and a leader. I'll be pulling at least double duty as a medic and leader, and might have to do the weapons man stuff. Monika is definitely going to be our intel chief, since she's the one with the cult experience and knows where the camps are. I'm definitely the medic, and apparently also the leader. We probably won't need a radioman or weapons man, but they can't hurt to have.

"What?" Monika asks, seeing me drift off.

"Nothing," I say. "Anyway, about resupply, Joe can–"

"Yeah, Joe!" Monika says. "How do you know you can trust him?"

"It's a long story, Monnie," I say.

"We have time," she says, unfazed.

"Okay," I sigh. "It all started in Afghanistan."

* * *

12 December 2013

FOB Fenty, Jalalabad, Afghanistan

"Yo, MC!" Chief Petty Officer John Terrance called. Terry was a SEAL, part of a twelve-man element that had been placed under CIA control along with my Ranger platoon. We were gathered out in our kinda-sorta-not-really-a-backyard, listening to AC/DC. Which Terry was not a fan of. Hence why he was calling me. "Put on some Wu Tang for us!" I walk over to the speakers, remove the iPod– _Sergeant Farnsworth's, he's gonna be pissed_ , I thought–and exchange it for mine. GZA's voice envelops the area, rapping at Mach 10, and there's a ragged cheer from Terry's SEALs and my Rangers. Yes, mine. I'd made Staff Sergeant just before deploying, so I was in charge of a rifle squad, one of four in my platoon. We were all celebrating. Yesterday, we'd carried out a raid that had bagged a professional bomb-maker hiding out in the tribals, down in some tiny village. Everyone was real happy with that outcome.

"Sergeant Connors!" Joe Savone shouted. Joe was a Master Chief in charge of the whole SEAL detachment. "Need you at the briefing room in ten!" I groaned and got up. "Roger, Master Chief," I said. "Oscar Mike." Translation: Yep, got it, I'm going. I got up off the lawn chair, and started ambling on–not to the briefing room, but to my bunk. I got the sense that I was supposed to look like the professional soldier I was, not some mildly military dipshit, which is what I did look like, hanging around in an OD Green T-shirt and BDU pants. I threw on my uniform and double-timed it to the briefing room.

Inside that room was Joe, a couple other SEALs, some CIA suits, and Master Sergeant Gary Harrell, my platoon sergeant. "Sergeant Connors!" Joe said. "You're a little early."

"Rangers lead the way, sir," I said, grinning. Joe chuckled.

"All the way, Sergeant. Anyway, we've got a spin-up. I'll let Mr. Mason take it from here."

"Okay," Mason said. "I'm sure you're familiar with Colonel Abdul Kashkari?" Abdul was a senior ISI agent. The CIA had been tracking him, suspecting he was providing support to insurgent groups but was unable to prove anything. "We finally were able to prove it." Until a little before that day. "We want you to kill him, make it look like an insurgent attack."

"Roger," I said. "Where and when's the hit?"

"We've managed to confirm that Colonel Kashkari will be in Miramshah to meet with a mid-level Tali commander in two days," Mason said. He clicks a clicker, and a map pops onto one of the TV screens. "Right here," he says. The meeting location is clearly marked.

"Okay, so we car-bomb the guy. Easy," I said.

"Not the way we want to do it," Joe said. "Kashkari's car's too hard a target to get to, and any local cars would be a bitch to wire up in time and keep ready. He's meeting inside the Tali guy's compound, and there's plenty of security around the place. But the rooftops are clear."

"Sniper attack," Harrell said. "And they want you to go, Sergeant. The other snipers are gonna be tied up on another target, and you're what's left."

"Okay," I said. "How are we doing this, Master Chief?"

"Simple," Joe said. "We'll infil by car, in costume, looking like locals, to this hotel here." He pointed. "You'll shoot the guy, and we'll bug out."

"Okay," I said. "Seems like a simple plan."

"Dismissed," Harrell said, and I headed out, back to the backyard.

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait," Agent Drew says. "Back up." He's interviewing Savone on how he knows Connors, and gotten Savone to talk about why his name was in Connors' CIA file. That took an hour. "So Connors was chosen–why?"

"Our other snipers were tasked to another target, a high-level bomb maker the CIA wanted dead, pronto," Savone says. "If we could have taken them we would. No offense to Connors–he was and is awesome–but my guys were more specifically trained for that kind of job."

"Okay, okay, got it," Agent Drew says.

* * *

Two days later, I was in a truck rolling up Miramshah's roads, with another right behind it. It was a Toyota Hilux, the AK of pickups. The trucks would help keep us disguised, along with the actual AKs. The trucks parked in front of our hotel, and we all came out. I didn't have a beard, so I would have stuck out. I say would have, because Joe forced me into a burqa. I could just barely see out, slowly cooking inside the heavy cloth. We walked to the front desk, and I heard Chief George "G" Fry, one of three Arabic speakers with the group (I and Joe were the others), tell the clerk we wanted two rooms on the seventh floor. The clerk named a price, G paid cash, the clerk gave us the keys, and up we went, taking the stairs, AKs slung. Me, Joe, and G entered the room, and I doffed the burqa as fast as I could. "Fuck me," I said, "That was hot."

"Tough shit, MC," G said. "Now let's shoot the motherfucker and bail." I nodded and unslung the Dragunov the Agency had given me. I pulled a ten-round magazine off my vest, rocked it in, racked the charging handle, and waved Joe over to a table. We picked it up and moved it in front of the window, clearing everything off it. Down went the bipod of the rifle, as I lay prone on the table. Behind me, Joe and G kitted up, placing vests over their man jammies and getting their AKs readied. I peered through the Russian four-power scope, both eyes open, superimposing the reticle where I aimed. With my right eye, I looked through the scope, and my left eye let me look around and spot potential threats.

It was 1132 hours Lima, or local time. The meeting was scheduled for 1315 hours. It was a long wait, but eventually it paid off.

"Activity in the courtyard," I said. A car was driving up the road, and people in the courtyard were scrambling around. It was 1307 hours local time, so Kashkari was early. _Whatevs,_ I thought. The car was a blue Mercedes, an exceedingly nice car for the tribals. I couldn't make out any faces inside, but that was okay. I'd wait for the Colonel to exit the car and whack him then. G was watching through a pair of binoculars. Through the view of the terrible Russian 4x, I saw the car drive in and park. Doors on the front half of the car opened, and Kashkari stepped out, along with some other random guy.

"Eyes on our HVT," I said over the radio.

"Confirmed," G said. "TOC, this is Echo Three, eyes on HVT."

"Echo, TOC, roger. You are cleared to engage." Kashkari took a step closer, moving in for an embrace with some other guy. I made a _very_ educated guess and fired. According to the laser rangefinder I'd brought, it was five hundred and thirty-seven yards to the center of the courtyard, which is where the Dragunov was zeroed. At that range, the bullet would take just over three-quarters of a second to arrive, which is why I pulled the trigger before Kashkari's head was in my sights, the only exposed part of him. The rifle recoiled, the sound of the gunshot filling the room, and Kashkari's head exploded, right on schedule. He went down like I'd dropped an eighteen-wheeler on him from three thousand feet. "HVT EKIA," I said, then quickly got up off the table, slung the Dragunov, and took my AK out of G's hand. We burst out of the hotel room, moving fast, quickly running down the hallway, Joe and Senior Chief Gene Michaels, Echo Two, leading the way, me in the center, G at the back, rifles up. We reached the end of the hallway, and I turned to cover the SEALs as they entered the stairwell.

"Last man!" G called, tapping me on the shoulder as he moved past. I turned to follow, and we rushed down the stairwell, moving to our trucks. We burst out of the stairwell, moving past the desk clerk from before, who cowered. We knew he was gonna tell the guards all about us, but we couldn't shoot him. No weapon or immediate threat. Didn't matter. Getting out came first. We rushed past, piled into the trucks, me and Joe covering the right side of ours with our rifles, and took off, leaving dust clouds. We had a good 370 klicks to cover before we were home safe.

* * *

"Mark, wait!" Monika exclaims. "You mean you actually _assassinated_ a senior official in a foreign government?"

"Yes," I say.

"But–"

"But nothing, Monnie. I had my orders."

"That's not an excuse!" she yells.

"Keep your voice down," I plead. "You'll wake the Dokis up!"

"Dokis?" she asks.

"Sayori came up with that name. Don't ask me how, I have no clue." I breathe in. "Besides," I say, "The guy was supporting people trying to kill fellow soldiers. That made him fair game."

"Mark, it's still–"

"I did bad things to bad people, Monnie," I say. "I was a Ranger, a Green Beret, a soldier. Part of the job description. And I was very good at my job."

"Whatever, Mark. But I still don't understand," Monika says.

"Don't understand what?" I ask.

"Why Joe owes you. So you shot a guy. And?"

"I'm getting there," I say.

"What, did you save his life from an ambush or something?"

"Just his career," I answer.

* * *

We were maybe ten klicks from the Afghan border when we were ambushed. It wasn't hard to figure out how: the clerk told the guards, who called ahead to their friends, who hit us right outside Torkham, a border town. It was a professional job, too, really well done. All those years fighting the Russians and then us had given these fighters some hard-won experience.

We lived because we got lucky.

The plan must have been to have a guy RPG the front vehicle–mine–and then shoot the hell out of the second one. It failed, because the rocketeer must have flinched and aimed low, skipping the RPG under the bed of our truck, and then it detonated harmlessly on the side of the road.

Not that I knew any of that when I heard Joe scream "RPG, right side!" I just found the smoke trail and started shooting. I figured that if I was gonna die, I might as well take the motherfucker who did me in with me. A burst of five or six rounds hit the guy as the rest of his friends opened up. Joe was shooting too, and in the rear vehicle, Gene was firing his machine gun, blazing away. G was driving me and Joe, and he floored it as soon as he heard "RPG!", so we were now traveling at somewhere neat eighty miles per hour, which was as fast as the things would go. I sent another rattling burst at the ambushers, another five or six rounds speeding out of the barrel of my AK, hot metallic death dropping one of the militants. We sped into Torkham, taking rounds the whole way.

Evidently the guys back in Miramshah had called way ahead, because it was smoke-a-SEAL day in that town. And if a Ranger happened to get whacked too, bonus points.

We kept taking rounds as we rolled through the town. The doors were armored and would stop AK rounds, but we also were taking heavier fire than the doors were rated for. I heard the SEAL behind me scream in pain. Must have been shot. The wounded SEAL's gun stopped momentarily, and I head G go cyclic on his AK, dumping the whole mag on full-auto right out the window to make up for the lack of rounds coming from that guy. The patched himself up quickly–nothing fancy, but it'd have to last us until we got back to J-bad–and started shooting again. We were still in the thick of the city, rounds flying at us from everywhere. We returned the fire, sending entire thirty-round magazines downrange astonishingly fast, almost once every three or four seconds. We had plenty of ammo in the trucks, but it looked like we might run out. Somehow, we managed to break through to the surrounding farms.

"RPG!" Joe screamed, firing off a burst. I saw his target, a teenager with an RPG-shaped item on his shoulder. Watched the burst–all tracers, telling Joe to reload–streak into him. Saw him tumble and fall.

Saw the RPG turn into a hoe.

* * *

Agent Drew blinked hard. Wally just stared at Savone.

"I know what you're thinking. Why the hell wasn't I fired?" Savone says. "Well, I owe Connors for that. When we got back to base, I didn't say a word to him. Not one word. Just did the verbal debrief with Connors, where he didn't mention it, and my wrote up my after-action report, where I didn't mention it. Evidently Connors didn't either, because I stayed a SEAL for a while after."

"But–but–you shot a kid!" Wally said.

"Justified shooting," Agent Drew said. "They were getting lit up, Savone assessed a threat, and neutralized it. It turned out to be less of a threat than he thought, that's all."

Wally shakes his head. "Whatever. Either way, this is nuts."

"Yeah," Agent Drew says. Connors has no problem bending the rules, that's for sure. He'll even cover up a killing–

If he thinks it's justified, Agent Drew realizes. Connors isn't someone with no moral compass, his is just oriented slightly East instead of true North. Agent Drew relaxes. It means Connors probably isn't going to kill anyone who doesn't deserve it. Well, that he thinks doesn't, anyway.

"Anyway," Savone says, "That's what I owe Connors for. It's not what he did in Miramshah. It's what he did after. Y'know, I never did learn why didn't write me up. He never told me why."

* * *

"Fact of the matter is," I tell Monika, "I thought it was an RPG too. Sun was coming in just the right way, kid was silhouetted, it looked just like a rocket. Joe just shot first."

She sputters. "Wh-bu-how could you just cover it up?"

"It was a justified shoot, Monnie," I say. "But also, if I had reported it, Savone might have been thrown out of the SEALs for no good reason. He did everything right. At the least, it would have killed his career, and over something like that?" I shake my head. "I mean, come _on._ "

Monika shakes her head. "It's not right, MC," she says.

"Why?" I ask. "What about it isn't right?"

"That kid's parents have a right to know why their son died!" she screams.

"Yeah, no," I say. "Everything I just told you requires a Secret security clearance and need-to-know to be able to hear that without going to jail or being shot. Not even the President would have the right, because why would he need to know? Fact is, Monnie," I continue, "Joe's career would be dead if I hadn't done what I did, and what I did hurt no one."

She sighs. "It–it's still wrong, Mark," she says, yawning.

"Okay," I say. "Go get some sleep, you could use some." She nods, and strides off towards her bed, which she's sharing with Natsuki. We did get more mattresses, but I didn't want to wake up the Dokis and move them around. I move over to the gear pile, check the clipboard, and start dog-earing a very dangerous cookbook.

Tomorrow, I start prepping the Dokis for war.


End file.
